


Protecting Her Cubs

by ap_aelfwine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Kissing, Magitech, Multi, Polyamory, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_aelfwine/pseuds/ap_aelfwine
Summary: Confronted with Umbridge's abuse, McGonagall summons her Gryffindor courage and acts to defend her students.





	1. From the Common Room to the Hospital Wing

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and situations of the Harry Potter series are copyright J.K. Rowling. They may not be used or reproduced commercially without permission. The use of these characters and situations is not to be construed as challenge to said copyright. They are merely borrowed for this work of non-commercial fanfiction, from which the author derives no financial benefit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wasn't the only one forced to write lines in blood, and Minerva makes a decision.

“This is horrible, Harry,” Hermione said for at least the fifth time, clutching his uninjured left hand as tightly as she could without hurting him. “You've got to show it to Professor McGonagall.” She was very good at first aid, just as she was at anything that involved taking care of her friends, and she’d carefully cleaned and salved his wounds, as she had done before. This time, however, the writing was still raw, despite her best efforts.

“She told me to keep my head down, Hermione...”

“Well, we'll see what she has to say when she sees how your hand looks tonight.” And before he could voice any further objections, Hermione had him in tow. Minutes later, they were in McGonagall's office.

“Professor, look! Professor Umbridge has had Harry writing lines in his own blood. That can't be legal.”

McGonagall's mouth was set in a hard line. “Officially, my hands are tied. _Madam_ Umbridge is a member of Hogwarts staff, and she has the right to discipline students. The Headmaster doesn't wish to interfere in these matters, and it's not within my remit to go against his policy.”

Hermione gripped Harry by the wrist and held out his hand, with the phrase “I must not tell lies” engraved in a messy scrawl on the back. He looked at McGonagall, looked at Hermione, and wondered if this might be the moment when his brilliant, orderly, law-abiding best friend lost the last remnants of her respect for rules and authority.

In an instant, the professor's face softened. “But I certainly can take you to see Matron Pomfrey. Your wound wants professional attention, Mister Potter, and I'll not have you in trouble for being out after curfew. Will you come with us, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, please, Professor.” Hermione's face was radiant. She'd always been pretty, he knew, but when had she got to be so very beautiful? And why hadn't he noticed sooner?

She laced her fingers with his as they followed McGonagall to the Hospital Wing. It felt awfully nice. For a moment, he thought that, just maybe, the pain from Umbridge's bloody quill was worth it, after all.

In the Hospital Wing, they found Madam Pomfrey sitting at her work table, facing a student. She barely looked up from the hand she was treating. “Good evening. Just wait a minute, please, and I'll see to you as soon as I'm done with Miss Bulstrode.” As she spoke, the school clocks struck nine.

Harry wasn't sure what to think. Millicent Bulstrode wasn't someone he'd call a friend, even though he couldn't say she was one of Malfoy's followers, either, in spite of being a Slytherin. The most significant thing he could remember about her was that, back in Second Year during the only session of Lockhart's abortive Duelling Club, she'd put Hermione in a headlock. He found that harder to forgive than nearly anything anybody had done to him.

At the same time, he didn't like to hear anyone struggling to keep from breaking down. He'd felt that way far too many times in his life, and right now Bulstrode was all but sobbing. “I swear to you, Ma'am, I didn't do anything. I was getting out her way, I promise I was, and I'd never meant to be there in the first place. No other professor would've given me a simple detention for 'obstructing the corridors like a hulking Mountain Troll,' let alone... this.”

“I believe you, Miss Bulstrode, but my powers here are limited to caring for students' illnesses and injuries. Have you spoken with your Head of House?”

“Thank you, Ma'am, but I don't think Professor Snape would do anything. Or could do, for that matter.”

The healer shook her head. “I'll keep you here for a while longer, Miss Bulstrode. You'll want Essence of Dittany on that wound to stop it scarring, but first the Murtlap has to do its work. Will you wait whilst I see to my next patient?”

“Of course, Madam Pomfrey.”

Much to his surprise, Bulstrode seemed to smile when she turned about and saw him. Or was she smiling at Hermione? Harry wasn't sure which seemed less likely. In any case, after a few seconds the tall Slytherin's face went back to the expressionless mask he’d expected. She sat down in one of the chairs over against the wall and took out a book. He sat down at Madam Pomfrey's table.

“What seems to be the problem, Mister Potter?”

“Well, my hand's like this...” He held it out.

“Essence of Murtlap, Undiluted, please,” she said, and a bottle appeared on the tabletop. “When you take this to the Aurors, Minerva, I'll witness for you. I'll even swear out a second complaint of my own. First Miss Bulstrode, and now Mister Potter... We cannot have staff torturing students. In spite of the nonsense Mister Filch likes to mutter when he's been at the drink, that has never been tolerated at Hogwarts, not even in Phineas Nigellus' time.”

“Unfortunately, Poppy, my hands are tied. The Headmaster doesn't want us making any noise about our newest colleague and her teaching methods, in case it might spur more blatant interference from the Ministry.”

Madam Pomfrey made a face, as if she liked McGonagall's statement as little as Harry did. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that she liked it as little as Hermione did, because it seemed to Harry his best friend was far more offended than he was. “This is substantially deeper than Miss Bulstrode's wounds, and I wish you'd brought it to me right away, Mister Potter, but proper treatment will ease the pain and at least reduce the chance of it leaving a permanent scar. Really, I've always been under the impression that mere possession of a Blood Quill was a crime for anyone other than a notary public or a commissioner for oaths.” She began to gently brush the Essence of Murtlap on his wound. It stung like rubbing alcohol at first, but seconds later a soothing coolness replaced the sting.

“Will you excuse me a moment, please?” Professor McGonagall said, and headed for the toilet. Madam Pomfrey said nothing. Hermione didn't even look up.

 

#

 

Minerva Catherine McGonagall stared into the mirror, looking herself in the eye. _Children. She's torturing childr_ _en,_ _your own students_ _, for nothing more than telling the truth as they see it or not getting out her way as_ _swift_ _ly as she thinks they should have done_ _. And you say your hands are tied?_ _Do you dare_ _to_ _call yourself a witch and a teacher?_

After a long moment, Minerva unbuttoned the collar of her blouse and drew out a tiny hourglass on a chain. It was time to get to work.

“ _Goitse, a Shiún,_ _le do th_ _o_ _il,_ _”_ she said softly, speaking not in the English she used with staff and students, nor in the Lowland Scots of her Squib father and his Aberdeenshire kin, nor in the Scots Gaelic spoken by the magical dwellers in the country surrounding Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, but in the Irish of her grandmother's home in Donegal, the language of her childhood summers. _Come here,_ _please_ _, Siún._

Her personal House Elf appeared in an instant, perching herself on the edge of the sink. “As you command, my noble Mistress,” the tiny servant said in the same language, and winked.

Minerva shook her head. She couldn’t laugh at her elf’s humour right now, not when she felt as noble as a dungheap. “We've work to do, my dear Siún. Please take me to a place where we can safely turn time.”

Silently, the elf popped her mistress into a long-abandoned store room. “Is there anything else you’ll require?” There was an eagerness in the elf's voice that Minerva hadn't heard in thirteen years.

“Several things, my loyal friend. To start, please come along with me into the past.” Minerva realised that an answering eagerness was there in her own voice. _May God forgive me, but I've missed using my skills. I shouldn't be pleased to commit a wicked act, even for the purpose of ending a greater wickedness,_ _but I can't deny that I am..._ _satisfied_ _. Well, the Good Lord wouldn't have given us the Sacrament of Reconciliation if He'd not understood that sometimes we would need to use it._ Her dear father, staunch Presbyterian that he was, might have disagreed with that latter sentiment, but she was certain he would approve of her taking whatever action was necessary to protect the innocent.

She crossed herself and turned the little hourglass. An hour earlier, she tucked the precious artefact back into her collar.

A wave of her wand transfigured her robes into dusty grey battledress, much harder to make out in the night than plain black. That done, she took another pendant from around her neck. This one had the look of an unusual piece of costume jewellery, a miniature rifle or musket made of browned steel, patinated brass, and dark wood. A few whispered code words later, and she held a weapon that Hermione Granger, or another observer familiar with the culture and technology of the Muggle world, might have described as a hybrid between one of the historical specimens housed in the Royal Armoury Museum at the Tower of London and a futuristic prop from an episode of _Doctor Who_ or _Blake's Seven._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a decision last year not to post anything that wasn't complete, which is why I've not been posting much lately. I've got three or four twenty to forty thousand word stories that I can't quite bring to a satisfying conclusion yet.
> 
> The recently reported death of the man who wrote several lovely Lunar Harmony stories under the pen name of Paladeus, however, got me thinking that maybe I should at least put something out, if nothing else so that anybody who might care can know that I'm alive.
> 
> I wasn't at all well acquainted with him, but I read his stuff. I left a review or two, and he left a review or two on stories of mine. May he rest in peace. My condolences to all who knew him.


	2. A Historical Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Wizards take interest in Muggle military technology, interesting things happen.

Towards the end of the eighteenth century, Doimnic Feiritéar, an Irish aristocrat from County Kerry, served, like many of his peers, as an officer in the Army of the Austrian Empire. As it happened, Doimnic was also a Wizard, born and raised in Corca Dhorcha, the Unplottable byland, inhabited by several thousand magical persons, jutting out into the sea to the north of the Dingle peninsula. He was a skilled Wizard and a capable soldier, possessed of only one great eccentricity: unlike most Wizards, even those who fought in the Muggle wars, he took a serious interest in Muggle technology, far beyond his personal weapons and those issued to his command.

In 1791, Doimnic witnessed a demonstration of the Girandoni air rifle, the first true repeating weapon issued to a Muggle military unit. It was as costly as a fine pocket watch and nearly as delicate, a dubious choice in an age when the typical infantryman had never seen, let alone operated, any mechanism more refined than a simple flintlock or the wooden gears of a water-powered mill, and was taken out of service by 1815. Nonetheless, Bartholomäus Girandoni's creation, carrying twenty leaden balls in its tubular magazine, its butt a hollow iron cylinder filled with compressed air sufficient for thirty shots, represented a level of individual firepower that would not be seen again on a battlefield until the Spencer and Henry lever-action cartridge rifles of the American Civil War.

Most wizards who encountered the Girandoni rifle regarded it as an amusing toy, another artless attempt to substitute for the blasting curses and piercing hexes a mundane sword would never cast. Those sensible sorts who respected Muggle capabilities considered it an impractical curiosity, as did Muggle military men. Reliability issues aside, filling the reservoir required fifteen hundred strokes of a hand pump; once ninety shots had exhausted the three reservoirs each soldier carried, the expensive air rifle, which couldn't even take a bayonet, was simply a club, and nothing like as effective in that role as a common musket.

Doimnic, however, saw that thoughtful application of his own talents might rectify the air rifle's drawbacks, and when he retired from soldiering, having inherited his father's house and lands, he began to explore the possibilities. After any number of experiments with self-working pumps or specialised charms to maintain constant air pressure in the magically-fortified metal chamber, he hit on a revolutionary notion: rather than mimicking the original mechanism and making Wizardly improvements, why not launch a bullet with magic alone? The impact of a musket ball projected by a simple banishing charm was scarcely more forceful than that of one thrown by hand, but when he laid out a series of runic repelling and attracting charms along the barrel, all set off by a single pull of the trigger and timed to operate in sequence, his bullets achieved a velocity that Earthly humanity had seen before only in the fall of a shooting star. Although the charms, unlike the Girandoni's loud blast of compressed air, were silent, the projectile itself produced a sharp crack as it sped beyond the speed of sound.

Doimnic Feiritéar had invented a magical version of the weapon science fiction writers of a later century would call by the names of Gauss rifle, coil gun, or electromotive firearm. Unlike their paper figments and the experimental devices built by Muggle engineers, his creation required no powerful electromagnets, no capacitors, and no battery or generator. Instead, a magical accumulator, like those in broomsticks or flying carpets, gathered ambient power from the surrounding environment, including the shooter's own energy field, and kept it for later use. He called it _an f_ _i_ _ús_ _a_ _il lua_ _is_ , “the swift fusil.” His friends, those who cared to speak of it at all, called it _f_ _i_ _ús_ _a_ _il_ _an_ _Fheirtéaraigh,_ “Feiritéar's fusil,” or, more frequently, _seafóid_ _an_ _Fheirtéaraigh,_ “Feiritéar's foolishness.”

Finding that lead bullets had a troublesome habit of melting with the friction of such high speeds, he switched first to small brass arrows and then to lathe-turned darts of tempered steel, an inch and a half long and four-tenths of an inch in diameter. It was easy enough to redesign Girandoni's horizontally sliding breech block for the longer, narrower projectiles, but the gravity-driven magazine, well suited to round balls, wouldn't them feed smoothly. Doimnic added a spring to push the darts into place; as an added benefit, the fusilier no longer had to raise the muzzle between shots.

Muggle craftsmen of the day would have been frustrated by the difficulty and expense of precision-manufacturing steel projectiles which could be used only one time each, but it was easy enough for a Wizard to create a prototype and Transfigure exact duplicates as needed. Scrap iron was best, and if the job was done properly the darts would keep their form for life, but in a pinch any old rubbish, from broken crockery to a handful of leaves and twigs, could be shaped into darts that would last through a day in the field and wouldn't turn back to themselves until after they'd struck their target. And that target could be hit anywhere in line of sight, with little need for the precise estimation of distance and adjustments for elevation and windage that long range shooting with conventional rifles required.

If Doimnic Feiritéar had possessed the mania of a Voldemort or a Grindelwald, his invention would have meant the end of the Statute of Secrecy and the rise of a magical empire. With swords, wands, and staves alone, a Wizarding warband, traditionally a force of between ten and thirty persons, would have been hard pressed to stand against a company of veteran infantrymen armed with the standard muskets of the year 1820, let alone a battery of twelve-pounder guns loaded with case shot or the newer shrapnel. But with fusils of Feiritéar's design—loosing a high velocity dart at every pull of the trigger, chambering another with a quick push of the shooter's hand, and no smoke or flash to give them away; out-ranging every contemporary weapon but artillery and well able to fly or Apparate across the battlefield before even the best gunners could index their positions—ten or twelve such bands might have broken every army in Europe over the course of a single summer's hard campaigning. Any attempt by the Wizarding governments to stop them would have met with no more success than the Muggle resistance.

Had the British Ministry for Magic aimed to make over Wizarding Ireland in the image of Southern England, he would have been roused to ferocious action; in all probability, the ultimate result would have been the end of the Ministry and, within a generation or two, the extinction of Anglophone magical culture in Britain. But the Wizengamot never interfered with religion, culture, or language, the Irish magical legal system was left to operate just as the Saxon one in England was, and Doimnic Feiritéar was content with the way things were for himself, his relatives, and his tenants. His weapon was unsporting and wasteful of meat when it came to shooting red deer or pheasant, and he was pleased to be done with war. With the fusil essentially perfected and no obvious use for it, he turned his attention to broomstick design.

None of this roused any great comment, and word of Doimnic's activity never spread beyond the locality. His friends and neighbours saw his inventing as a mere personal eccentricity, a hobby not so very different to those of Tomás Óg Ó Murchú who kept his flock of pet Diricawls on an Unplottable island east of the Blaskets or Lasairíona Ní Néill who trained lake monsters for dressage mounts when she wasn't teaching otters to distil their own poitín.

As the brainchild of a canny businessman in some alternate universe, Doimnic’s fusil might have reached southern Africa and won its inventor a loyal following amongst the Afrikaans, Khoisan, and Xhosa-speaking Wizards and Witches who supplied the international potions ingredient trade with the preserved parts of deadly magical animals such as the Nundu and the Erumpent, but he knew scarcely more of them than they did of him. The professional hunters had long since found that Muggle firearms, with appropriate magical enhancement, were the best means of taking down their quarry, but their modifications were always improvements of the weapons' inherent characteristics: sound and recoil suppression runes; steel barrels strengthened by Transfiguration and alchemy so not even the most outrageous charge of gunpowder could burst them; charms which sped up a flintlock's ignition to eliminate the heartbeat of delay between squeezing the trigger and the charge going off, gave round lead balls the killing power of a later era's conical hollow-point bullets, and permitted a muzzle-loading rifleman to snap off a second or third shot as quickly as his Muggle counterpart of the 1930s might have done with a bolt-action magazine rifle from Weatherby or Jeffries.

Even in the Twentieth Century, the magical workshops of Holland and Holland and the other great London and Birmingham gunmakers, where Wizards and Witches trained in Muggle craftsmanship and versed in all the latest innovations combined technology and magic to build rifles able to take down the strongest and deadliest creatures with a single well-placed shot, never came close to reinventing Doimnic Feiritéar's fusil.

As for the man himself, he had a dear childhood companion, Sorcha Ní Dhuinnín, who'd spent years abroad in the Americas as a freelance explorer, hunter, and Hitwitch. When she returned to Corca Dhorcha to visit her family, she found her old friend living in his ancestral home with hardly any company but his horses, his dogs, the House Elves, and a couple of young mermaids, Méabh Chinidh and Bláthnaid Nic an Mhara, who came to visit him every day when he strolled by the seaside. Seeing how politely Doimnic maintained eye contact with the girls, in spite of their most shameless efforts to remind him that they were completely unclothed and in their terrestrial forms, with beautiful legs and all the other features of a human woman in place of the dolphin-like tails they wore in the water, and how their remarks about the danger that some terribly handsome man might steal the magical cloaks they always left on that one big rock right next to him, keep them captive on land as his helpless trembling pets, and tame them until they were as eagerly submissive as the inmates of the Ottoman sultan's harem, went completely past him, Sorcha remembered the many happy days she'd spent with her friend when they were growing up.

As if a bolt of lightning had struck her, she realised that not only had she had her fill of adventuring and fighting in foreign lands, but she'd missed one specific person; namely, the gentle, funny boy who was still very much alive inside the handsome soldier who was as comfortable speaking with her of America and the great hairy elephants whose innate magic kept Muggles from finding any trace of them but the bare bones of their ancient dead as he was talking about sea lore and the local whales with the two part-human girls who clearly adored him just as much as she did. She also realised that the mermaids never displayed the slightest hint of jealousy towards her, despite her close friendship with the man they desired. In fact, they welcomed her company and praised her beauty and wit, very much as they praised her dear Doimnic's handsome face and clever mind.

At the next dawn, when Doimnic, having been up half the night perfecting an improved mounting for broomstick twigs, was still asleep, Sorcha went down to the strand and had a most stimulating conversation with Méabh and Bláthnaid. A few hours later, he went out for his usual walk and found his childhood friend contentedly sunbathing with the mermaids, her robes and her every other garment piled on the rock along with their two cloaks.

They spent the rest of the day teaching him three very important things: first, that as much as they appreciated him maintaining eye contact with them in spite of their nudity, looking at the rest of their bodies was equally proper, as was touching; second, that although truly robbing a mermaid of her cloak and locking her in her human form, as described in so many sad songs and stories, was indeed a form of rape, “stealing” it when invited to do so and returning it only after the delighted and willing “captive” had been thoroughly kissed, petted, and cuddled was a traditional courtship rite; and third, that it was his solemn duty to talk with the parish priest for the sake of the three women's souls as well as his own, because if they made plans to wed as soon as humanly possible they'd spend no more than a fortnight living in sin.

Although Doimnic continued to tinker with everything from clocks to stills to Sneakoscopes for the rest of his life, he found far more satisfaction as a husband, father, and eventually grandfather than he'd ever had as a soldier or an inventor. The weapons he'd designed were put under stasis charms and stored away in one of the numerous attic rooms of his family's rambling seaside manor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doimnic is pronounced something like "Dimrick" in my accent; "Dimnick" in his.  
> The name of Corca Dhorcha comes from _An Béal Bocht_ , written by one of my literary heroes, Myles Na Gopaleen (Briain Ó Nualláin) AKA Flann O'Brien. I wish there were a translation I could recommend, but the one available is useful only as a guide to help a person with limited Irish get through the original. If you've not got Irish, I suggest you read _At Swim Two Birds_ or _The Third Policeman_ instead.  
>  This version is a much more pleasant place to live and doesn't conform to the deliberately surreal geography of Na Gopaleen's story.  
> Yes, I know the cloak thing is commonly part of the selkie tradition. It's also told about mermaids, especially in the part of the world the Feiritéaraigh come from. For some reason none of the traditional stories or songs deal with what happens when the man isn't a bastard, probably because "they were very happy, had lovely children, and were never short of fish" isn't as memorable as "she found her cloak hidden in the thatch and swam away whilst the kids wept on the shore."  
> The Girandoni rifle is a fascinating historical weapon. Like the Ferguson breechloader, it's easy to exaggerate its potential, but all the same it's a gorgeous piece of engineering and I'd love a chance to shoot one.  
> And no, it's not actually silent:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfsKibQ480w  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2dZLeEUE940  
> https://www.beemans.net/Austrian airguns.htm


	3. Minerva's War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret history of Minerva McGonagall. Also, a Hufflepuff prefect comes to the Hospital Wing.

Nearly a century and a half in the future, a Scottish-born great great-granddaughter of Doimnic Feiritéar and Sorcha Ní Dhuinnín would discover his notes and, more importantly, three examples of his final model of fusil in a trunk of heirlooms presented to her by a much-loved but slightly dotty aunt as a gift commemorating her newly awarded Mastery in Transfiguration. The trunk and its contents might have sat in Minerva McGonagall’s own attic for another hundred years, if the life and livelihood of one of her favourite cousins hadn’t been menaced by his new neighbours.

The Streicher brothers, once minor functionaries in Grindelwald's organisation—the special court the hundred-odd German magical states had established after their leader's defeat dismissed them as not worth the time and effort of a trial—had settled in Scotland, bringing with them a considerable store of wealth which they claimed to have got by selling off the tiny broomstick shop their late father had kept in some Black Forest hamlet. After a year or two in Edinburgh, they’d bought a farm in Caithness, which, by ill chance, lay next to the one Sorley McGonagall had inherited from his parents only two years before.

Although the Germans professed to desire only a peaceful life as gentleman farmers, they immediately decided their neighbour's three best fields should be added to their own holdings, and hadn't even the decency to offer market rates. When the incomers escalated from menacing innuendo to killing livestock and burning a couple of unoccupied shepherd's bothies, and the Aurors insisted they could do nothing but take a report, since it was only Sorley’s word against that of the generous and respectable Gunther and Heinrich Streicher, Minerva, unbeknownst to her cousin, set up a blind on a hilltop overlooking the neighbouring farmstead.

One quiet evening, she saw her opportunity and took care of the matter with two shots. The steel darts were Summoned back to her hand; an innocuous spell, and one she'd cast frequently that week as she did Chaser drills with a young neighbour who wanted to try out for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, but kept losing the Quaffle in the bushes. By the time anyone took note of the Streichers’ absence and came round to investigate, scavenging foxes and crows had eliminated any forensic anomalies. The coroner found that the brothers had fallen out over the affections of a barmaid at the local public house, fought a duel, and killed each other with simultaneous blasting curses. The distant relative who inherited their property, a young widow from Mannheim, proved a very good neighbour indeed; three years later, she and Sorley were wed.

In the Seventies, after Voldemort's followers murdered the Muggleborn owner of a Hogsmeade bakery and his nephew, a Fifth Year Gryffindor, Minerva joined Albus Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. It was clear to her that—barring the traditional clan warbands and village militias, all of which contented themselves with keeping their own territories free of Death Eaters—they represented the only competent resistance in Britain. If a pragmatist like the late Hamish Maxwell, who'd directed the defence of the island during Grindelwald's War, had been in command, Minerva might well have revealed her secret weapon and assisted her comrades in making copies for themselves, but some instinct made her hold back until she had a better idea of her Hogwarts superior's ability as a warleader.

A month or two after she joined the Order, the Prewett twins volunteered to put up protective wards over the Wallsend home of a Second Year Muggleborn. As Fate would have it, they came round the house on the very evening that a Marked Death Eater and five recruits chose for their attack. Fortunately, Gideon and Fabian Prewett had taken to carrying a hunting crossbow and heirloom swords, and the paterfamilias, who'd fought in the Italian Campaign thirty-five years earlier, kept a shotgun. All six assailants were swiftly dispatched and their remains Transfigured into coal brick. The blood and debris were sorted with quick applications of _Reparo_ and _Scourgify_.

A neighbour who thought she'd heard shots and shouts was happy to discover it had only been a backfiring car and the Sumner boys kicking a football about the back garden with their red-headed twin cousins from the West Country, nothing to trouble the constables over. The brothers finished the warding job, loaded the enchanted panniers of their broomsticks with coal, and flew the deceased Pureblood terrorists, minus a few bricks that went in their host's fireplace, over to Gateshead and the furnaces of the Dunston B Power Station.

Any reasonable person would have called the skirmish and its aftermath a solid success, but Dumbledore's horror confirmed Minerva's worst suspicions. _Albus_ _seemed to think_ _Gideon and Fabian should have_ _allowed_ _themselves and Melissa_ _Sumner_ _'s_ _entire family_ _to_ _be slaughtered before they hit those_ _murderer_ _s with anything more_ _lethal_ _than a stunner. If he'd_ _ever_ _learnt about_ _the fusil, he'd have Obliviated me and buried both my weapons and my ancestor's journals at the bottom of the sea. He'd not have left me_ _even_ _the memory of_ _U_ _ncle_ _Davie_ _teaching me to shoot his old rook rifle_ _when I was a girl_ _._ _And I'm sure he'd_ _have told_ _himself_ _he_ _was_ _do_ _ing_ _me a great kindness._

Instead, she fought in secret, operating as a sniper with her loyal House Elf as her spotter, assassinating Death Eaters when they strayed into places that offered her a clear shot and a suitable lack of witnesses. Although she knew better than to try for the Dark Lord himself, she did her best to thin the herd as much as she could without being detected by either side. Realising that she might not always be able to Summon back the tell-tale darts, she took to Transfiguring them out of dirt, rags, or rubbish from the immediate vicinity, using her skills to create projectiles that went back to their original nature within thirty seconds of impact, even when shattered on bone or stone. No Healer performing an inquest took particular notice of foreign matter in the wounds of a man killed by multiple blasting curses in Knockturn Alley, especially when the curses had been so potent as to tear through his body and crater the brick wall behind him.

Dumbledore's sources told him the Dark Lord was most displeased with the infighting amongst his followers, much of which wasn't even carried out through traditional Wizards' duels, but in back-alley fights and assassinations. In the month before that fateful Halloween, Voldemort was reported to have executed one of the Rookwoods, a Malfoy, two men from cadet Lestrange lines, and the elder Goyle brother for the murders of fellow marked Death Eaters with whom they'd quarrelled. _Two with one blow,_ she had thought, bowing her head and crossing herself as she hid her grim satisfaction behind her Occlumency barriers.

She'd lit candles and prayed for the resting of their souls, of course. Wishing damnation on another human being was a sin, and once the guilty party was gone from the Earth any further retribution was in the hands of the Creator. She'd done the same for the brothers Streicher, back in the day. Although Dumbledore, a Nonconformist Protestant, was quietly uncomfortable with the Roman Catholic faith practised by most magical folk in Britain who had any concern for the spiritual life, he had been pleased with her respect for the lives of their foes.

“Siún, my dear, would you bring me five pebbles from the courtyard, please?”

“With pleasure, Mistress.”

As the Elf carried out her task, Minerva sat watching her personal Marauders' Map. James Potter and his comrades had given her a copy of their creation when they left Hogwarts, and she'd made a few refinements of her own over the years. In honour of her young friends, she didn't use her map to trap pranksters—unless, of course, their 'pranks' were more accurately described as bullying, vandalism, or outright abuse—but she had often found it useful for tracking the movements of both staff and students, since Albus had never thought to share his own access to the school’s wards with his Deputy, no matter how frequently he asked her to take over his responsibilities.

Her self of the present time was in the office, marking papers. Harry Potter was in Umbridge's office, as was the so-called Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor herself. Hermione Granger was in the Gryffindor Common Room, pacing back and forth as she waited for her best friend to return from his detention. Millicent Bulstode was pacing as well, in the darkness and privacy of the grounds rather than in the Slytherin Common Room, doubtless dreading the detention she was scheduled to face once Harry's was over.

Minerva had noticed something interesting about Dolores Umbridge. Although her public disdain for Muggle culture was so severe as to make many marked followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named seem moderate and reasonable in their rejection of mundane influence, she smoked Benson and Hedges cigarettes, which she put in a silver case once she'd destroyed the tell-tale packets. Sometimes she took them in her office, where air-freshening charms and sickly-sweet scented candles covered all traces of the non-Wizarding tobacco blend, but more often than not she went outside.

Sure enough, Umbridge allowed herself time for a fag between victims. As soon as Harry Potter was out of sight, the Senior Undersecretary left her office and stepped out onto a balcony. _I_ _n theory, I_ _could kill her_ _right_ _now. Siún could pop me into place and_ _bring me_ _back_ _once_ _the shot_ _s were fired_ _. But that would create a paradox. I'm sorry, Miss Bulstrode._

Instead, Minerva calculated how she'd do the job when the time came. _If I_ _'m able_ _, I'll shoot her at_ _precisely_ _nine of the clock._ _Too much before, and I'll only have Mister Potter and Miss Granger to witness for my whereabouts._ _I_ _might not be the first suspect,_ _or even the_ _fifth_ _, but i_ _t's_ _good insurance_ _to have Poppy_ _to_ _vouch_ _for me_ _as well,_ _since she's not only a member of staff but_ _a Pureblood and an_ _accredited_ _Master_ _Healer._ _And i_ _f I time things properly, the bells will cover up_ _the_ _noise._

If worse came to worse, she'd wait a day or two. Siún would help her to work out the sadistic little toad's schedule down to the minute, and they'd snipe her at the most convenient moment just as they'd done to so many other villains, back during the war. It would be easy enough to turn time and make the kill whilst her earlier self was teaching. _But if I possibly can, this ends tonight. Mister Potter and Miss Bulstrode_ _could_ _be scarred for life_ _already, and the odds_ _will_ _increase with every session of torture they're subjected to_ _. Not to mention that her next victim might a First Year, or poor dear Miss Lovegood from Ravenclaw, or even sweet Miss Granger_ _herself_ _. As it is_ _already_ _, she might never forgive me for following Albus' orders and not charging into Umbridge's office_ _to_ _driv_ _e_ _the nasty little toad_ _from the school at wand point_ _,_ _and_ _I_ _'ll not_ _blame her if she doesn't_ _. I_ _can only_ _hope_ _and pray_ _that someday my two favourite students_ _will understand my circumstances._

Minerva glanced at the map. Harry Potter's dot was in the Common Room, now, very close to Hermione Granger's. For an instant, she thought she saw the name Hermione Potter. That would be a lovely thing to see for real, someday in the not too distant future, even if it should be well before they left school. _They remind me of James and Lily from time to time,_ _not_ _so much_ _of their actual Fifth Year selves but of them as they were after they married_ _. I do hope_ _Mister Potter_ _gets up the courage and the sense to ask her to be his instead of_ _dating somebody else_ _for fear of harming their friendship_ _, because it would be like_ _Miss Granger_ _to_ _try_ _and force_ _herself_ _to_ _settle for young Mister Weasley,_ _simply to stay near her true love_ _. That would be a disaster._ She roused herself from her romantic speculations, and went to work. Moments later, she held the darts she intended would end the life of Dolores Umbridge. She loaded them into the magazine and made sure all was ready. On the map, Millicent Bulstrode was sitting across from Umbridge. Minerva felt like vomiting. _For that vile sadistic_ _…_ _Witch_ _,_ _torturing a handsome boy and a pretty girl in the same evening_ _is_ _like_ _ly a fantasy come true._

Some of her young Gryffindors might have imagined Umbridge would see a kindred spirit in the tall Slytherin, but Minerva knew better. From the very night of her Sorting, Umbridge had been a sycophant to those in power and a bully to every pupil she could torment, with a particular hatred for the attractive girls she saw as rivals and the good-looking boys who never cared to have her. Bulstrode was simply a loner, and although she had poor posture— _How could a_ _shy, awkward_ _girl,_ _taller than most of the boys_ _and doubtless mortified to realise_ _she was one of the few_ _First Years_ _who_ _a_ _ctually_ _need_ _ed_ _the support charms_ _stitched_ _in_ _to_ _her blouse_ _, not get in the habit of hunching over_ _before her first Christmas holiday_ _?_ —she was growing into a handsome young woman, with strong features that would only look better as she matured. Even if her peers didn't recognise her beauty, the jealous Senior Undersecretary would. Add in Bulstrode's height and her sturdy build, which Umbridge would take as damning evidence of non-human ancestry, and you had someone who was nearly as likely to attract her hatred as Harry Potter and his Hermione.

If Millicent Bulstrode had come from wealth, it might have kept her safe enough, but her parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, although comfortably situated, were neither members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors nor major donors to the Minister for Magic. Her mother was a modestly successful author of historical romance and mystery novels and her father was a mere country squire, notable only for the superior winged horses he bred and trained. Had the girl been connected to one of the major Dark-leaning families, like the Malfoys or the Notts, Umbridge might have gritted her teeth and ignored her, but both the Bulstrodes and her mother's people, the Mangnalls, were strictly neutral, as likely to sort Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or even Gryffindor as Slytherin. She was a distant cousin to one or more “Imperiused” Death Eaters, of course, but that wasn't saying much; she was also a tenth cousin to Harry Potter, a fourth cousin twice removed to the current crop of Weasleys, and a sixth cousin of both Severus Snape and Sirius Black.

“You're thinking on shooting the nasty toad-lady from the Clock Tower, aren't you, my Mistress?”

“That would be my first choice, Siún.”

“That's a fine spot, but perhaps you'd not wish to be leaving pebbles on the balcony?”

“Thank you, dear Siún. You're absolutely right. It's a long time since we've done this, isn't it?”

“It is, my dear Mistress. Would you prefer something else?”

Wizards and Witches were notoriously deficient in logic, and the pebbles would very likely be lost amongst the rubble which the darts would knock loose from the wall after exiting the victim and before returning to their natural shape, but there was no need to take the risk. “I'd be grateful for some ice, if you please.” There was more than enough blood in a human body to conceal three or four ounces of water from even the most talented forensic specialist on the planet.

Ice to steel was a more difficult Transfiguration than stone to steel, but she had the time, to say nothing of the skill. With five new darts waiting in her magazine and the pebbles returned to their native shape, she watched the map and the dots, contemplating how long it had taken Miss Granger to persuade her best friend to go to their head of house. In the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's office, Millicent Bulstrode still sat opposite Dolores Umbridge. For a moment, Minerva wished she could wrap the Slytherin in a motherly embrace. Did the poor girl have anyone at all to comfort her in the way Harry Potter had Hermione Granger?

_At a few minutes before nine of the clock, assuming her earlier pattern applies, the target will go out on the balcony to gloat and enjoy her Benson and Hedges. Events from there will proceed as Fate will have it. Saint Michael, General of the Heavenly Host, and Saint Sebastian, patron of snipers, pray for me to the High King of Heaven. You know that I act for the sake of justice, to protect the innocent in the only way I can. Guide my aim, I pray you._

 

#

 

As Madam Pomfrey was applying a final layer of Essence of Murtlap to Harry's wounds, someone came pounding on the door of the Hospital Wing. “Madam Pomfrey! It's urgent! Professor Umbridge needs you, Ma'am!”

Madam Pomfrey set her mouth in a hard line. “Well now, does she? I'm afraid Madam Umbridge will simply will have to wait until I've finished with Mister Potter and Miss Bulstrode. A Healer's got to prioritise, and I must give each of them at least one application of Essence of Dittany if the wounds are not to scar. For that matter, I must document their injuries and my treatment of them with the utmost precision. If you'll come in and sit down, please, you can take me to her once I've set them right. It shouldn't be more than an hour or three.”

The person at the door came in. She was a Hufflepuff prefect, a Seventh Year, with square-lensed glasses and mousy brown hair in a bun. Harry couldn't remember her name. “Please, Ma'am, she's... I found her on the balcony off the Defence classroom corridor. I don't know what happened... I've never seen so much blood, Ma'am, not in all my life.”

“Oh.” Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “Mister Potter, I'm terribly sorry, but I do suppose I had better go and look into this. The Murtlap needs an hour to work on your wound, and then an application of Dittany should finish the healing process. Miss Bulstrode will want the same forty-five minutes from now. Miss Granger, I hate to impose, but would you do the honours on both of them if I'm not back in time?”

Hermione flushed slightly. The colour made her face even more fetching. If they'd been alone, Harry might well have given in to his sudden impulse to kiss her, so it was probably just as well that they weren't. “I... of course. If that's all right with you?”

“I'd trust you to do anything, Hermione,” Harry said. _I hope that wasn't too much,_ he thought.

Hermione smiled softly, even though she seemed to be having trouble meeting his gaze. “Thank you, Harry.”

“I trust you as well, Granger.” Millicent Bulstrode said. Harry'd almost forgotten she was there. “If you don't mind, that is.” Much to his surprise, she winked at Hermione, so quickly that he doubted a person without a Seeker's hypervigilant senses would have caught it.

“Of course not.” Hermione's little answering grin was equally fleeting.

Professor McGonagall came out of the lavatory. “Whatever seems to be the matter?”

“Ma'am,” the Hufflepuff said, “I was in the corridor by the Defence classroom, doing my routine post-curfew check, when I noticed that the door leading out to the balcony had been left open. When I went to investigate, I saw someone was lying on the, on the floor of the balcony. I lit my wand, and I recognised Professor Umbridge's pink cloak. I asked if she was well, and she didn't respond. I thought she'd slipped and fallen, or perhaps had taken ill, so I laid my hand on her shoulder, and then I saw, well, I saw the... the blood. I've never seen the likes of it, Professor, not even when I was ten and spending the summer at my Gran's and a pair of stoats got in the hen house and I went out to collect the eggs in the morning and I... I'm sorry.”

“Not at all, Miss Collins. You've done very well. Thank you.”

“I didn't know what else to do other than put my cloak over her and come here to get Madam Pomfrey. I'm sorry. I don't know anything much about first aid. I would have tried to cast an Episkey, but I'm told that would do more harm than good if a major blood vessel were torn and... sorry.”

“Not at all, Miss Collins. You're fine.” McGonagall laid her hand on the Hufflepuff's shoulder. “Poppy, have you a Calming Draught for Miss Collins?”

“Here.” The Matron handed Collins one of the familiar little bottles. “Drink this, my dear. And you've no need to apologise. It's clear you've had a terrible shock. And you did well not to attempt a spell that couldn't have helped much and might have made things worse.”

“Thank you, Ma'am.” The Hufflepuff drank her Calming Draught. A shudder ran through her whole body, and then she relaxed. “Well, I suppose I'd better show you the way, hadn't I?”

“Yes, please, Miss Collins. Poppy, will you join us?”

“Yes. Mister Potter, Miss Granger, Miss Bulstrode, and Miss Lovegood, I'm afraid I'll have to lock down the Hospital Wing, since something untoward has happened in the castle and there's no available member of staff to look out for you. Will you be all right?”

Harry suddenly realised that there was a small blonde girl in the room. She was sat next to Bulstrode, and she'd been so quiet and so still that he'd not even noticed she was there. When had she come in? Or had she been there all along? “Yes, Professor McGonagall. I think that between Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter, I will be very well protected, thank you. And I'll do everything in my power to protect them as well, naturally.”

Harry wasn't even sure what to say to that. He didn't _think_ Bulstrode would try anything in the Hospital Wing, but she was something of an unknown quantity. He flexed his hand, and judged that if Hermione needed him to defend her he could use his wand well enough.

Before he could think of anything to say, the tall Slytherin said “Yes, Professor. I trust everyone in this room. We'll be fine together.”

Hermione nodded. “I trust all of you. We'll be safe. Do you think Hogwarts is under attack, Professor?”

“I don't know, Miss Granger. I don't believe that you'll be in any danger, but I will activate a lockdown when we leave, just in case. If any of you need anything at all, I suggest you ask for a House Elf to help you.”

The blonde girl smiled. Her grey eyes were unusually large, Harry noticed, and they protruded a bit more than most people's did. Professor Umbridge's eyes did that as well, he supposed, but somehow in the blonde's case the effect was very different. She was nearly as pretty as Hermione, actually. He realised that he'd seen her many times, in the corridors and the Great Hall, ever since Second Year, but it seemed his gaze had always skipped right over her, as if she didn't want to be noticed. “Thank you, Professor. They're very dear and helpful people, aren't they?”

“That they are, Miss Lovegood. Mister Potter, are you willing to stay here with your fellow pupils?”

“Oh. Yes, Professor. Sorry.”

“Don't worry about it, Mister Potter. Poppy, are you ready? Miss Collins, will you need anything else from here?”

“Err, no, Professor. Thank you.”

Madam Pomfrey picked up a satchel made of canvas and leather from behind her work table and slung it over her shoulder. “I'm ready, Minerva. Let's go. The Essence of Dittany is on the table, Miss Granger. The contents of the bottle should suffice for both of them, and you needn't be concerned if some small amount is left over. Ten of the clock for Miss Bulstrode, and a quarter past for Mister Potter.”

“Ten o'clock, and then a quarter past. Thank you, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger.”

The door shut behind Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, and the Hufflepuff prefect, and made a squelching sound as a locking charm applied itself. Shutters closed over the windows with much the same noises. Harry was alone with Hermione, Millicent Bulstrode, and the blonde girl who was apparently named Lovegood. He looked at Hermione, not quite knowing what he should say or do.

Hermione tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She nibbled at her lower lip. “Harry? May I make some introductions?”

 

#

 

Minerva blackened her face, pulled on her balaclava, and checked her weapon one last time. The power reservoir showed a full charge, the magazine was feeding smoothly, and all was in order.

On the Map, she saw Millicent Bulstrode making her way down the corridor towards the staircase. Minerva couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy, imagining the tall girl trying to pretend she wasn't hurting, forcing herself to walk at a normal pace and not to clutch her wounded hand. Or maybe she wasn't even putting on a brave face, since there was nobody else in the corridor.

There was little traffic in that part of the Castle, even less than in previous years. Curfew hadn't changed, but nobody wanted to stray far from their Houses, especially after dark. And even Slytherins were loath to spend more time than they must near the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

She saw another dot on the same staircase Bulstrode was descending. Luna Lovegood. That was unexpected. Then again, the daughter of Selene Lethbridge and Xenophilus Lovegood often did things others wouldn't do. Minerva hoped the Slytherin wouldn't lash out at the eccentric little Ravenclaw in her pain and anger and misery.

Much to her surprise, the two met on the landing and stood close for a minute or more, much as she'd seen Harry Potter and Hermione Granger do. She wondered if in both cases there had been an embrace. And then the girls' dots were moving side by side, down the stairs and through the corridors, towards the Hospital Wing. _So, is that how Miss Bulstrode ended up in Poppy's care so quickly?_ _Is Bulstrode less stubborn_ _than Mister Potter_ _, or is_ _Miss_ _Lovegood more persuasive_ _than Miss Granger_ _? P_ _erhaps it's_ _a bit of both—_ _at their age,_ _girls will be more sensible about their own injuries than boys._

She glanced at Gryffindor Tower. She herself was still in her office, and Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were very close together on one of the Common Room sofas. As she watched, the two got up and headed for the door. Soon, her young Lions would be in her office, and not long after, the three of them would walk into Poppy Pomfrey's domain.

Minerva looked back at the Defence instructor's office. Umbridge was still at her desk. _Will she stay_ _inside_ _for her fag? I hope not. But if she does... well, that will only buy her a few more hours._

There were three dots in her own office. Minerva felt a sudden pang of regret. _I should have said more. I should have apologised, at the very least. I should have hugged my two favourite students,_ _since there was nobody else there to see,_ _and told them the_ _y'_ _re as dear to me as if they'd been my own children. Of course, I'm glad they're not my children, because they'_ _ll_ _make a wonderful couple and even_ _amongst the most fanatical Purebloods_ _brothers and sisters marrying each other is_ _considered_ _beyond the pale. I wonder, would they blush if I said that to their faces?_

Her past self and the pair of students were moving towards the Hospital Wing. Poppy was caring for Bulstrode, and Lovegood was there in the corner, waiting so quietly that Minerva's gaze had swept right over her when she came into the room, as she had done and would do not so very long from now.

Umbridge was up from her desk, moving across the office towards the door. Minerva folded her Map and tucked it away. “It's time, Siún. Would you be so kind as to take us to the Clock Tower?”

“With pleasure, Mistress.”

They had done this many times, back in the day, and Minerva had learnt to trust in her Elf's ability to pop her into just the right spot. It was clear that Siún's old skills had gathered no rust in the past twelve years. _Is this_ _another example of the_ _way in which Elf memory isn't like human memory?_

There were stories, or perhaps it was better to say rumours or even legends, of old, old House Elves who had assisted their long-dead masters and mistresses in operations that by modern standards were nearly as Dark as the Unforgiveables: the complex ritual forging of swords quenched in blood mixed with exotic potions, for instance, or the construction of now-forbidden runic arrays for dire purposes. Minerva knew scholars who, speaking in private to trusted colleagues, professed themselves certain that some Elves still living in the two islands had personally helped to craft the horrendous magical weapons of the Bronze Age—Cú Chulainn's Gae Bolga was one of the last of those deadly creations, an ever-thirsting barbed spear, cast by a master smith whose very name had become a lost secret of the ancients a millennium before Scáthach of Skye presented it to the Ulster hero—and knew the true uses of the great megaliths and passage graves.

Some whispered that those ancient Elves, in times of need, would seek out the heirs of their masters to impart crucial knowledge, and that their memories and skills were as fresh as the day they'd learnt them, as if centuries or even millennia without practice were no obstacle. _Might Siún someday teach a distant descendant of mine to_ _kill_ _from_ _a_ _hundred yards_ _under cover of darkness,_ _or_ _a mile or more_ _on a clear_ _day_ _?_

Minerva shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. It was a crisp dark September night, the stars out and both sun and moon below the horizon, and she stood behind the crenellated parapet of the narrow walkway that surrounded the slate roof of the Clock Tower, across the courtyard from the Defence Classroom. Over on the opposite side, some four stories below her, was the balcony Umbridge used for her smoking breaks. And right on time, the target opened the door. Between her pink robes and her bulbous silhouette she was unmistakeable even in the uncertain light from the corridor torches.

The crenel was smooth granite, just the right height for Minerva to kneel and brace her weapon. As a feline Animagus, she had rather better than average night vision. And as a Transfiguration Mistress, one with a near-Mastery in Charms as well, she'd made numerous small modifications to her spectacles. As well as adding the commonplace small magics that stopped them breaking or falling off or fogging up, she'd developed some personal charms which made them as effective in the darkness as Muggle night vision goggles, or more so.

She didn't need the flare, suppressed to a short-lived flower of soft red light by the magic of her glasses, when Umbridge touched her wand to her cigarette and cast a tiny fire charm to know precisely where the toad-like woman was. That said, it did make a convenient aiming mark. Minerva lined up the sights and focussed her attention on a spot eighteen inches lower down. She exhaled, inhaled, and, just as the clock struck, she squeezed the trigger. Umbridge fell back against the wall, the cigarette dropping from her lips.

Minerva fired twice more, each shot precisely matched to the bell. The last dart struck the Senior Undersecretary between the eyes. On the stone floor of the balcony, the little glowing coal of her fallen cigarette died out. _May God have mercy_ _o_ _n your soul, Dolores._

“It's time, Mistress,” Siún said.

“It is. Let's go.” In a few minutes, their earlier selves would pop into the empty store room. The Minerva of an hour ago would be feeling sickened by what she'd seen, and ashamed by her own inability to protect her students. _Well, it looks as if I can defend them,_ _after all_ _, hands officially tied or not. Perhaps I_ _do_ _still_ _have the right to call myself a teacher._ Siún moved, and the universe went elsewhere for an instant.

They were in another disused room, leaving the first for their earlier selves to make their hour's journey into the past. Minerva made sure her weapon was in good order, reversed the Transfiguration on her last two lumps of ice, and re-loaded with the ordinary steel darts she kept for emergencies. That done, she shrank the fusil and returned it to the chain round her neck, beside her other most valuable heirloom. She changed her battledress into robes and her balaclava back to a handkerchief. A quick spell took the blackening off her face. “I suppose it’s time we returned to the toilet in the Hospital Wing, isn’t it? But first, did I miss anything?”

“It is, Mistress. And you look just as you did.”

Before she exited the lavatory, four minutes and an extra hour after she'd gone in, Minerva hugged Siún. “Thank you, as always, my dear.”

“Thank you, Mistress. The Pink Toad-eyed One was very unpleasant to the Elves here, and she was torturing Miss Millicent, who is always most polite to us, and Harry Potter, who is very good to young Dobby, even if he and his pretty Granger girl are not yet understanding Elves' need for the Bond. Our Dobby is a fine fellow, truly, although he does need to be getting his head straight and doing more to help that poor sweet Winky of his.”

Someone out in the Hospital Wing was calling for Poppy. “They'll have found the remains, Siún. I should go and do my job.”

“You always are doing your job, my dear Mistress. Good night.”

“Good night, Siún.”

Minerva stepped out into the room. She saw Eliza Collins from Hufflepuff, and realised that the young prefect— _She_ _only_ _barely_ _turned eleven in time to make_ _the cut-off for her year, a_ _nd_ _she was so s_ _light_ _that when I saw her in the Entrance Hall I thought a girl of nine had sneaked onto the Express with an older sibling_ —must have found Umbridge's body. She was on the very edge of hysteria, to the sound of it, and understandably. Minerva had been a good eight years older when she shot the Streicher brothers, and it hadn't been the first time she'd seen death, but all the same she'd had difficulty keeping anything more substantial than tea and toast down for a day or two after seeing the bloody mess her weapon made of them. _Poor girl. I wish I_ _could have spared_ _her_ _the sight_ _, but needs must when the Devil drives._

Just as she opened her mouth, she remembered these were people with whom she spoke English. “Whatever seems to be the matter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me if the Muggleborn Witch Melissa Sumner from Wallsend is related to the Sumner from Wallsend who became famous in the Muggle world under a singular stage name. :-)  
> The Italian Campaign was brutal. There's no point in naming names, but a great uncle of mine was in the landing at Anzio.  
> And no, I don't hate Albus Dumbledore, Germans, or people who smoke Benson and Hedges.  
> This story isn't set in the same universe as my Irish-language fic "Scéal Scáthaigh." I've simply adopted the notion that Minerva McGonagall had an uncle named Davie who taught her to shoot as part of my personal headcanon. A rook rifle is a smallbore black powder cartridge rifle used for small game, the sort of thing a farmer would find useful.  
> Is Dolores Umbridge a major character? I couldn't decide if I should tag this as a major character death or not.


	4. Of course you may, Hermione.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione introduces her friends. Minerva and Poppy inspect the scene on the balcony. Also, there are kisses.

“Of course you may, Hermione.” Harry wasn't at all sure what was happening, but he knew there was one single certain thing in all the world: Hermione Granger would always do right by him. She'd stood by him after his name came out of the Goblet of Fire when nobody else did, not Ron, not even the professors. With an intensity of emotion that took him by surprise, he realised that he couldn't imagine marrying anyone else. _Cho is pretty, but I barely know her, and even if I did, could I possibly trust her the way I trust Hermione?_ Parvati had accepted his apology for being such a berk at the Yule Ball with a firm hug and the whispered suggestion that he could make up for it on any evening he liked, and if things went well maybe Lavender might like to join them from time to time, but he didn't really know her much very better than Cho. Besides, he had the feeling that Hermione wouldn't approve.

“Thank you, Harry. Well, then, may I introduce two of my closest female friends, Millicent Bulstrode and Luna Lovegood? Girls, this is my very, very dear friend Harry Potter.”

“Err... Hello.” He held out his hand, not thinking until it was too late that it was still feeling kind of tender.

Millicent smiled and very gently, she put her palm up against his. “It's good to meet you, Harry. To really meet you, that is, here with just our friends in the room so we have a chance to get to know each other. I hope it's all right if we don't do a proper handshake, but I think that would smart a bit right now.”

“Yeah. It's good to meet you as well, Millicent.”

Rather than touch his hand, Luna hugged him. “Oh, it's so good to finally meet you, Harry Potter. Ginevra and I grew up reading those silly books, of course, but I have to admit that everything I've heard about you from Hermione makes you sound so much more pleasant and brilliant and interesting than the plain old made-up Boy Who Lived. I've been hoping for an excuse to meet you properly for a long time, and although I'm sorry it had to involve you and dear Millicent being tortured by that horrible vicious woman, and I know it's wrong to speak ill of the dead but she was simply evil and I'd say that even if she hadn't tortured such wonderful friends of mine and even if she hadn't hated our Hermione simply because of who her parents are, I'm absolutely delighted that we've finally met. Thank you so much for always taking such good care of our dear Hermione.”

He wasn't exactly sure what to say to that, but somehow Luna seemed like such a nice person that he didn't mind the barrage of words, despite how much it annoyed him when other people, such as the Creevey brothers, talked that way. He didn't even mind the fact that somebody he'd never met before had just hugged him, even though as a general rule he didn't like being touched without warning. “Oh. Well, thank you, Luna. I... it's nice to meet you.”

She was still hugging him. It felt terribly pleasant. He hoped Hermione wasn't upset, because surely this was only a friendly hug, but there had already been far too many times in his life when he hadn't been anything like as respectful and kind and thoughtful of Hermione as he should have been, starting out in First Year when it had taken a troll attack to make friends of them, even though he realised now that she'd wanted to be his friend from the very first instant they laid eyes on each other.

He dared to glance at Hermione. She was smiling, as if Luna hugging her best friend was one of the finest sights she'd ever seen. Her eyes met his. After a moment she looked down and away, as if she'd suddenly got all shy. But then she looked back up, and they locked gazes, and suddenly Hermione's arms were around Luna and around him.

“Would you care to join us, dear Millicent?” Luna said.

“If... if you don't mind, Harry?”

“Of course not.” The words were out his mouth before he'd even thought about it. He didn't know Millicent, of course, but Hermione's trust was enough for him. Besides, it didn't seem fair for three people in the room to be hugging and one of them to be left out. He'd been left out too much over the course of his own life, and he didn't want to do that to anyone else, especially somebody Hermione had called one of her closest female friends.

Millicent enveloped Harry and Hermione and Luna in her arms. It felt better than he ever would have imagined. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Finally, they let each other go and sat down on the chairs, making a tight square, their knees almost touching. Somehow it felt comforting to be so close together, as if the four of them were lost in the wilderness somewhere with only each other to depend on, even though they were in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing which was nearly as familiar as the Library or the Gryffindor Common Room. A few minutes went by with no words, and no need for them.

“Luna,” Hermione said, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper even though they were the only people in the room, “do you really think Professor Umbridge is, well, dead?”

“I do find it very hard to believe that Eliza Collins would have been so terribly upset if she weren't. She's normally a fairly calm sort of person—even though she can't seem to see Wrackspurts, she's remarkably good at resisting their efforts to push her mentally off balance. That’s interesting, since most of the time it's the people who don't believe they exist, such as Ronald, who are most vulnerable to them. Aside from that, the Castle has felt just slightly off ever since the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister came here to teach a subject in which she hadn’t so much as an OWL, let alone a NEWT. But now it seems almost completely back to normal.”

“Oh.” Hermione took a deep breath and stared at the wall for a moment, as if she was gathering her thoughts. “Well, she was a horribly cruel person, and I have to confess I hated her for what she did to my friends, but I... well, I suppose I'm sad she'll never have the chance to learn better. Or at least I'm trying to be sad, because I know I should feel that way.”

Harry wondered at how readily his best friend, who as a rule was so very logical and rational and so committed to seeing all the evidence before she believed something was true, accepted Luna's word about Umbridge's death. But somehow he knew in his gut that Luna was right. Maybe Hermione did, also.

He didn't know what to say to Hermione, so he reached out and took her hand. She smiled at him, so he supposed it was the right thing to do.

Millicent patted Hermione's shoulder. “You're a wonderfully dear and kind person. I... I'm trying to feel that way as well, but, well, I'm afraid I've never been very good at that sort of thing. I'll pray for her soul in Purgatory, at least. I can do that much. I reckon the prayers will count even if I don't feel very sincere in saying them.”

“Could... could I join you?” Hermione said.

Harry was amazed. He didn't know much about religion—the Dursleys said they were Church of England, but they hardly ever went near Little Whinging's parish church, Saint Grogory's, they'd certainly never taken him there, and he'd realised a couple of years ago that saying they were Anglican was actually their way of saying what they weren't—but he'd always figured it was the type of thing Hermione would have no time for.

“You don't have to, Hermione. I mean... you're welcome to if you'd like to, but...”

“Oh, Millicent. I know I used to say there was no evidence for any of it, but... I've come to realise just how many things there are in the world that are so very important, and which you can't measure or isolate in a laboratory or write up a concrete definition of for the _Journal of_ _Magical Research_. Things like friendship, and bravery, and... love.” She was blushing, and smiling, and she wouldn't quite meet Harry's eyes. “Besides, I... well, if nothing else, saying the Rosary at least lets you centre your thoughts and feel as if you're doing something when there's nothing else you can do. My grandmother said something like that, once, although not in those words. I didn't really understand what she was getting at, but now I think maybe I might.”

“Hermione,” Luna said gently, “I do think that prayer is a very good thing, in whatever way one feels able to do it, at least if you're not sacrificing people to Tash or something like that in the process, and if you want to pray I think it would be an excellent idea, but isn't there something else you're thinking about doing as well? Because I have this very strong feeling there is, and if I'm correct in that, I think you should be very wise to do it right now. And Harry, I think you should as well.”

Hermione looked up. She was chewing so hard on her bottom lip that he worried she might draw blood. “Harry, I... may I?”

“Of course, Hermione.”

They were embracing again. When had that happened? It felt perfect. Then again, hugging Hermione always felt perfect, and always had, he realised, ever since that first time in the maze beneath the Third Floor Corridor. She nuzzled his cheek. That was new. He liked it. He nuzzled her cheek, hoping she would like it as much as he did when she nuzzled his. If her soft little purring noise was any indication, she did. And then their lips met, and they kissed.

It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever done. It was more wonderful than getting his wand, more wonderful than making his way through the wall of Platform Nine and Three Quarters and seeing the Express, more wonderful than his first sight of Hogwarts.

More than that, it was perfect. He'd imagined kissing a girl many times, but the reality of kissing Hermione was so far beyond anything his imagination could conjure up that he couldn't even think of words to express the difference. Then again, he'd always felt slightly uncomfortable when he realised he was fantasising about Hermione. She was his best friend, and it seemed as if that was against the rules, somehow. Not that he hadn't done it, any number of times, but still, he'd always thought it would bother her if she found out, as if he was somehow infringing on the purity of their relationship.

_That was silly, Harry,_ he thought, and he wondered if it was odd that he was hearing the words in Hermione's voice. But he was kissing Hermione, and there wasn't really any good reason to think about anything besides just how wonderful kissing Hermione was, so he let the thought flow away.

They paused, at last, to catch their breath. “Harry?”

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Was that... all right?”

“More than that, it was... incredible. Was it all right for you?”

“Oh, yes, my Harry.”

“My Hermione.” And he kissed her again. It wasn't until after the second kiss that he remembered there were two other girls in the room. But he was looking in Hermione's eyes, and it didn't seem to matter to him, because it didn't seem to matter to her. _They're her friends. She trusts them. I trust Hermione, and therefore I trust them._

“My Harry,” she said, and she kissed him.

 

#

 

Minerva took a deep breath and schooled herself to calm as she followed Eliza Collins along the corridors, Poppy at her side. She'd never been responsible for the preliminary investigation of a killing before. She'd call in the Aurors before the night was much older, of course, but she couldn't do that until she, as Deputy Headmistress, had seen the evidence for herself.

Albus was off doing something or other with the ICW again. That was just as well. The Headmaster had never reacted well to the sight of blood, although he was an effective fighter when he had no other choice—his high levels of thaumaturgical power made his preferred stunners into far better manstoppers than those cast by ordinary Wizards and Witches, and he was more than capable of casting blasting, piercing and cutting hexes in the thick of battle. _Would the confessional take away some of his excessive pacifism? Perhaps if he_ _could do_ _something_ _to expiate_ _the guilt he apparently feels every time one of his followers take_ _s_ _decisive action against a Death Eater or other murdering scum, he'd give up trying to restrict them to spells that from their own wands are hardly more effective_ _in battle_ _than a Second Year's Jelly Legs Jinx?_

_In any case, Albus will always try not to bring in anyone from outside Hogwarts, but we really do need this investigated immediately by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If nothing else, we can't have the least appearance of a cover-up when a Ministry official has been killed on a Hogwarts balcony. That might raise suspicions we don't need raised. Granted, Severus would be the most likely suspect, and some would call him no great loss, but in his own way the boy is doing his best to make more of himself. Much as I dislike the way he treats Mister Potter and Miss Granger, not to mention how he allows some of his Slytherins to misbehave, he's attempting to atone. If he weren't, I would have shot him years ago. It would have been easy enough. Still would be, for that matter._

She needed to stop thinking about Severus and his reformation, about Albus and his pacifism, or about Harry Potter and his Hermione Granger, and start thinking about the task at hand. It might have been easier if Poppy or Miss Collins had been more inclined to nervous chatter as they walked, but Poppy was a professional and Collins was clearly hanging on to her composure by the skin of her teeth, even with the Calming Draught. Minerva hoped her colleague had brought another dose in her bag, because the young prefect would likely need one before she spoke to the Aurors.

They were in the corridor outside the Defence Classroom. “It... I mean she, she was on the balcony, the one that's at the end of the corridor. I... I put my cloak over her, but I don't even know if I closed the door. I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall.”

“Don't be, Miss Collins. You did precisely what you were meant to do. Well done. And if your cloak's ruined, I assure you that Hogwarts will buy you another. For now, you can wear my spare one. We can’t have you catching a chill out there on the balcony. I'll have a House Elf bring it to us.” Even as Minerva spoke, Siún popped into the corridor and dropped the cloak into Minerva's outstretched hand. “ _Maith thú, a thaisce._ ”

Collins blushed as she took the garment. “Th... thank you, Professor. I'll take very good care of it.”

“You're welcome, Miss Collins.” Minerva wondered, suddenly, if the girl might have a crush on her. _That's usually something that happens_ _with_ _Second or_ _Third Year_ _s_ _,_ _rather than Seventh,_ _and_ _it doesn't happen_ _as_ _often_ _since I started wearing a Glamour to look_ _more_ _like a Muggle woman of my age,_ _but I must admit she'd not be the first_ _._ _I hope she didn't think I_ _said 'Thank_ _s_ _,_ _love'_ _to her, rather than to Siún._ _I don't_ _think_ _she has Irish, but it's possible she at least understands a bit, and_ _if_ _she's not a native speaker she might not_ _realise_ _that we Gaels consider our House Elves to be friends and close kin_ _and speak to them accordingly_ _._

The door was closed. “I hope... I mean, I didn't think I should try to move her inside. Should I have left the door open?”

“It wouldn't have done her any good,” Poppy said. “You were right to protect your fellow students from the sight. And you were very right not to move her. You've never learnt to cast the medical Immobilisation Charm, and without one even the gentlest _Mobilicorpus_ could have made things much worse.”

Minerva drew her wand and cast a quick series of detection spells, for the sake of form. That done, she cast the lighting charm. “There's nobody else on the balcony or in the courtyard, so it's safe for us to go out. I'll light the way, to keep your wand free for diagnostics, Poppy.”

“Thank you.” Poppy opened the door, and they followed her out onto the balcony. She knelt beside the body, and reached down to move Collins' cloak aside. “You might want to look away, both of you. No reason to force yourself to watch this.”

Minerva didn't turn her head. She glanced over at Collins with a quick flick of her gaze that only someone with the situational awareness of a veteran fighter would be likely to notice, so as not to embarrass the girl. _Good, she's not watching. As for me, it's nothing I've not seen before._ _Call it penance, or call it duty._

“Well, now,” the healer said, “it's a good few years since I've seen this sort of thing.” She cast a series of medical charms. “Time of death is nine of the clock this same evening, Deputy Headmistress. Deceased is Dolores Jane Umbridge, Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I, Poppy Panacea Pomfrey, Master Healer as certified by my Guild, do say this.”

“As Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School, I, Minerva Catherine McGonagall, Mistress of Transfiguration under the seal of my Guild, do witness your statement. Let us summon the Aurors. And may God have mercy on the soul of our late colleague.” She made the sign of the cross.

“Amen.” Poppy crossed herself, as did Collins, to Minerva's mild surprise, as she'd never seen the girl at Mass in either the Hogwarts chapel or Saint Aidan's in Hogsmeade town.

“The closest Floo connection will be in her office, I expect,” the Healer said, “but we'd best leave her work space undisturbed, for the sake of the investigation. Will we go to the Staff Room?”

“That would be best, I think. Please come with us, Miss Collins. You'll need to give a statement to the Aurors, and besides, it wouldn't be good for you to be alone in the Castle right now.”

“Do you... do you think we're under attack, Professor?”

“I doubt it, Miss Collins, but there's no reason to take chances.” Minerva reached out and patted the girl's shoulder. “Aside from that, you've had a shock, and although you're handling it in an exemplary fashion, it's easier to remain focussed after something like this if you’ve got company. Once you’re done, I’m sure one of the Staff will be able to walk you back to your House and your friends.”

Poppy shook her head. “If it were an attack on the school as a whole, we'd have more damage than one person killed and a bit of stone knocked off the wall.. No, this has the look of an assassination. I... well, no need to say more until the Aurors and the coroner have had a look, but I served as a medical examiner on a number of cases during the War, and I remember the signs.”

“I'll leave the school in lockdown for now,” Minerva said. “Once you've made your statement to the Aurors, someone will escort you back to your dormitory, Miss Collins. You needn't worry about your patrol tonight—the Staff will take care of the corridors.”

“Thank you, Professor. Err... I do hope Potter and Granger and their friends will be all right?”

Minerva gave the prefect a nod. “Ten points to Hufflepuff for remembering your responsibilities to all of your fellow students in a crisis, Miss Collins. And I do suppose if worse comes to worse, the four in the Hospital Wing could spend the night there?”

Poppy chuckled. “No other patients are in the Wing at the moment. There are plenty of beds, and I'm sure a House Elf would get them anything they might need. And there's an Anti-Lust Ward up, so we needn't worry about the lack of a chaperone.”

“Very good.” Minerva suspected the healer might share her own opinion with regards to a relationship between Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. _As for myself, I doubt more than two beds will be necessary. Mister Potter and Miss Granger deserve the comfort of_ _lying together_ _,_ _and_ _even though as a teacher I shouldn't think such things, I'd approve of them sharing a bed even absent a lust suppression ward_ _or an old-fashioned Bundling Charm_ _. Were they both Purebloods and magically-raised, I feel confident in saying their families would have_ _arranged a betrothal_ _b_ _y_ _the end of their Third Year_ _at the_ _very_ _latest; some of the_ _more traditional Houses_ _would have held their handfasting_ _at the start of_ _their first Christmas holiday_ _and requested I_ _house_ _them_ _together_ _in one of the rooms for married pupils on their return_ _to school_ _. Miss Bulstrode and Miss Lovegood seem very close as well. It's none of my business to speculate if their feelings for each other are simple human friendship and sisterly love, or if their affection is less Platonic, but in any_ _case_ _I think they're good for each other._

When they got to the Staff Room, Collins asked to be excused to the lavatory. Minerva was grateful for the chance to talk alone with her colleague. “Do you have any thoughts, Poppy?”

“I didn't want to say anything in front of Miss Collins, but I saw very similar wounds back in the Seventies, when I was working as a medical examiner for the DMLE. Some of the Death Eaters apparently had a high energy blasting curse, which, curiously, they seemed to use for the sole purpose of killing other Death Eaters. We were never entirely sure if the victims were potential liabilities being eliminated before they had a chance to turn Crown's Evidence or if their deaths were the result of simple faction fighting within You Know Who's organisation.”

_Thank God for all the practice I got concealing my own little war from Albus. Next to that, keeping Poppy in the dark is easy. I expect she'd approve, but_ _what_ _she doesn't know can't be extracted from her mind._ “That's interesting. I was in a good few fights, back then, and saw too many of our own casualties. I don't remember any of them with similar wounds. I do wonder why they didn't use it in combat.”

There was a quiet pause. At last, Poppy said “I've always thought it was because, being sadistic bastards, they preferred to inflict as much pain as possible. Not to mention that they understood casualties screaming in agony from their wounds would be more distracting to their own comrades than dead bodies. This particular spell does cause massive trauma, but death would appear to be practically instantaneous, at least if it hits anywhere close to a vital spot, and it doesn't evoke the superstitious dread that the Unforgiveables do. I expect they used it for assassinating their former associates only because it was swift and certain. I wouldn't be surprised if the incantation could be said quickly and quietly as well. For all the superstitious horror the Killing Curse evokes, it's too many syllables and can't be whispered.”

“Do you think we might have Death Eater revivalists targeting Hogwarts, Poppy?”

The healer shook her head. “I doubt it. To be perfectly honest, our late colleague was... well, I expect you noticed that she... sometimes seemed something of a sympathiser with the Dark Lord and his cause?”

“I did. To be quite honest, if Albus hadn't specifically ordered me to do nothing opposing her, I would have put her on formal probation in the first week of term simply for her vile remarks about 'half-human savages.' I was never sure if she was targeting Filius and Hagrid or some of our pupils, but in any case it was an offence against not only good manners but Hogwarts policy.”

“This is, of course, complete speculation, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn Dolores Umbridge travelled in circles that might have included one or more formerly 'Imperiused' followers of the Dark Lord. She was the sort of person who, well, I think she would have made bitter enemies even amongst people she agreed with. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but it's true. Don't you think so?”

“Aye. And maybe one of them might have come round to speak with her? It would have been easy for them to have a private conversation out on the balcony, since the wards, on those same peacetime settings that Albus insists we continue to use, would let nearly anyone into a space like the courtyard, so long as they weren't set on violence at the moment they crossed our perimeter?”

Poppy smiled a grim little smile. After Harry Potter's experience in the Third Task of the Tournament last year, she, Minerva, Pomona Sprout, and Filius Flitwick had proposed immediate activation of at least the passive layers of Hogwarts' wartime wards, only to be over-ruled by the Headmaster. “It's not an unreasonable conclusion. The blasting curses were almost certainly cast from an elevated position, judging by the angle of the initial wound and the damage to the wall behind her, as if the shooter might have been riding a broomstick. Perhaps he or she Apparated to the edge of the wards, took a broom into the courtyard, and met Dolores, by chance or perhaps more likely by appointment? And when they quarrelled, our perpetrator drew wand and shot off a few curses before fleeing?”

At that point, the lavatory door opened. Minerva suppressed a sigh. It was time to Floo the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She hoped someone sensible, like Kingsley Shacklebolt, was in charge tonight. _Wee Johnny Dawlish_ _would either bluster in and try to solve the Crime of the Century_ _all by his little_ _self, or else, depending on what he's been drinking lately, he'd be in mortal terror of a dressing down for exceeding his authority and he'd insist on summoning Amelia Bones_ _before anyone else had so much as a look at the body_ _,_ _which would not only cause a delay but put Amelia in a terrible mood_ _. If he weren't_ _a cousin to the Minister_ _, I doubt he'd have ever have_ _been given_ _a duty more significant than foot patrol in Diagon Alley._ _And doubtless he'd have been sacked from that before long._ _He barely passed his OWLS, and his NEWTS were pathetic._

 

#

 

At last, Harry and Hermione paused for breath. Simply holding his best friend in his arms as she sat in his lap was just as wonderful as kissing her.

“Congratulations,” Millicent said softly. “That was a lovely glow. And it's so very good to see the two of you together. Or should I say 'Together, and realising that you're together'?”

“It is,” Luna said. “I've been expecting to see this happen ever since the very first time I ever saw the pair of you, to be honest. Your auras have been reaching out to each other for years and years, probably since your First Year, and I've wondered when the rest of you would catch on.”

He looked towards them. The two girls had pressed their chairs together, and they had their arms about each other. They were smiling. For some reason that made him happy. Then again, he'd just kissed Hermione, and she was still in his lap, so it was probable that almost everything he saw or heard or even smelled would make him happy.

“Really?” Hermione whispered. “We glowed? I'd thought that was only something that happened in stories.”

Luna smiled. “You did, my dear Hermione. And either it isn’t, or we're all in a story together. I don't know which possibility is more interesting. Do you have any thoughts on the matter? Because I'd be very curious to hear them.”

Millicent laughed. “Do we have to choose? I'd like to think both could be true, myself.”

Hermione smiled her funny little smile, the smile he'd only seen when the two of them were alone together. Harry had never realised it before, but she never smiled that way when Ron was about. “I think like that idea myself.”

Millicent and Luna were holding hands. Harry didn't think it was his place to speculate about what that might mean, but clearly it made them happy, and therefore it made him happy. He imagined it made Hermione happy as well, given how she smiled at them.

The clock struck ten, and Hermione planted a little kiss on Harry's neck before she, very slowly, got up from his lap. “It's time I put the essence of Dittany on your hand, dear Millicent.”

“Well, if you'd like to you're welcome to wait a while longer. It's awfully nice to watch you and your Harry.”

“I promised Madam Pomfrey I'd do it. And you wouldn't want me to not keep my promises, would you?”

“Perish the thought.” Harry'd never realised how very pretty Millicent was. Was it because tonight was the first time he'd ever really seen her smile? Or had he always been too busy to notice before, or too caught up in all the stupid things the Gryffindor boys liked to say about her? Then again, they said much the same about nearly all of the Slytherin girls, other than Daphne Greengrass and Tracy Davis, who were universally acknowledged, even by Ron, to be “very fit, even if they are Snakes.” For that matter, it could have been that now he was seeing Millicent not as merely “Bulstrode,” but as Hermione's good friend. Perhaps he was even seeing her through Hermione's eyes, in a sense.

They sat down together at the table. Before Harry properly realised what he was doing, he had sat so close to Hermione that she was practically in his lap again. And before he could move away for fear of distracting her, she said “That's nice, Harry. Please, stay right there. You're a valuable partner in my career as a Healer, did you know that?”

“Mm, I can see how he would be,” Millicent said. “The two of you make a simply splendid team for all sorts of things.”

Luna giggled. “I can only begin to imagine how many things there are that Harry and Hermione would be simply perfect at doing to a girl. And I'm trying very hard not to do more than begin to imagine, because I'm afraid I might embarrass myself and my friends if I thought about it very much longer.”

Much to Harry's surprise, Hermione giggled as well. Giggling, as a general rule, wasn't a Hermione thing. In fact, he'd only heard her giggle a handful of times in all the years they'd been friends; usually it happened late at night when they were working on something together and Ron had already gone up to bed. It was a nice sound. He supposed he'd always sort of liked it, just as he liked all the sounds Hermione made, even her sneezes when she reached up on some half-hidden shelf in the Library and hauled down a dusty book that nobody had read since the Thirties and the cute little burps she'd struggled to stifle when she drank her first mug of Butterbeer too quickly. “Thank you, Luna. So, Millicent, if you'll give me your hand, we'll begin.”

“With pleasure.” Harry liked the smile on Millicent's face when Hermione cradled her right hand in her own left, nearly as much as he liked the smile on his own Hermione's face. _My Hermione. She called me her Harry, so_ _I reckon she must be_ _my Hermione_ _as well_ _. My girlfriend? She's definitely still my best friend, but I_ _'m sure_ _that kissing_ _the way we did_ _means she's more than just a best friend. But somehow “girlfriend” doesn't feel nearly strong enough. Not that I know much about these things, of course. I suppose I should ask her what she'd like to be called. Part of me thinks she's my wife,_ _or at least my fiancée,_ _but that seems rude without having asked her or given her a ring or anything, let alone having a wedding._ He had the strangest feeling that Hermione was chuckling at him, somewhere in the back or at the side of his own mind, but it was probably just that he knew she would chuckle if he told her what he was thinking about. He'd enjoy hearing that, so he'd have to tell her at some point when they were alone.

Or perhaps he should say he'd tell her at some point when they weren't doing anything else, because Luna and Millicent were their friends. In an odd sort of way, he felt as if he could trust the two girls more than he trusted Ron. Not to say that he had lost his trust in Ron, or he considered Ron any less of a friend than he had earlier in the day, but he knew perfectly well that, had he and Hermione kissed in front of their red-headed best mate, said best mate would have done his best to ruin the tenderness of the moment, with a crude joke, a demand that they get a room, or whatever other bit of rough levity might have occurred to him.

He would have thought more on the subject of whether Ron was jealous and which of them he was actually jealous of, but Hermione was delicately brushing the Essence of Dittany on Millicent's still-wounded skin, and the look of concentration on her face was delightful. She had caught her lower lip in her teeth, although she wasn't really chewing on it as she sometimes did when she was nervous, and at the same time she was smiling sweetly and gently. He'd seen that expression many times, of course, but there was something especially wonderful and magical and delightful about it now.

He'd have to kiss her again as soon as she was done with the task at hand. In fact, Harry was wondering why he hadn't kissed Hermione much sooner. He'd seen that same sweet look on her face when they were only First Years, and he'd liked it even then, even though at the time he didn't quite know why he did. Could he have kissed her, back then? Would she have liked it?

_Oh yes , my Harry, you could have kissed me , and yes, my Harry, I would have loved it . If it hadn't been for Ron and the professors, I would have kissed you after you saved me from the Troll. And if I had done, somehow I think I would have slept in your arms that very night. I would have wanted to do, in any case, even more than I did . And there were at least five other times in that year alone when we could have kissed. Oh, how I wish we had done!_

“It's all right, love. We've kissed now, and that's what matters.”

“It is, my Harry,” Hermione said softly. “You're right. And... you can hear me? Not just now, but a few moments ago?” Her eyes fluttered wide for a moment.

“Well, yes. And wait... you could hear me, well, thinking about you?”

“Yes, Harry. You think such very nice things, did you know that? Thank you.”

“Um, so do you. Thanks.” _Oh, Merlin, what if she catches me being a pervert?_

Hermione winked. “Then I'll just have to show you just how much of a pervert _I_ am, my dearest Harry.”

“Congratulations,” Luna said. “I did think that looked a most energetic sort of bonding. Talking in your minds is a very good sign.”

Harry knew his face had to be nearly as red as a Weasley's hair. “Thank you, Luna. And oh, I'm sorry, Millicent. I've been distracting Hermione from treating you.”

Millicent smiled at him. “Not at all, Harry. It's delightful to be in your company. And she's doing an excellent job. Look, Hermione, my wounds are almost gone. I've had cuts treated with Murtlap and Dittany before, but I don't think they've ever disappeared this quickly.”

Hermione's face was flushed. “Well, I... I suppose it must be an unusually good preparation. Maybe the usual one at school is done by Professor Snape, but this was made by Madam Pomfrey? I was reading a paper not long ago that suggested healing potions brewed by someone with a positive attitude were more effective than those brewed by someone who was full of negative feelings.”

“Now now, Hermione dear, no hiding your light under a bushel basket,” Luna said. “Or should I say your light and your Harry's light? In any case, it's very naughty of you, and we might have to ask your darling Harry to spank you as a punishment. Ooh, wouldn't that be a lovely sight?”

Hermione giggled. “I might not mind it. Of course, I suppose that would mean it wouldn't be much of a punishment, would it?”

“If it weren't for the fact that it might embarrass Harry, I might ask him to spank you as a reward for being so sweet and capable and clever and brilliant and wonderful, not to mention just plain adorable,” Millicent said. “My, that sounds nice, doesn't it? I do wish I had somebody to spank me. Err... sorry, everyone, I didn't mean to say that last bit aloud.”

“Don't be sorry, sweet friend,” Luna said. “A little bit of gentle spanking can be a healthy part of a relationship, as long as everyone enjoys it. And I'm sure there are a number of people present who might be willing to play some sweet game along those lines with you, my dear friend Millicent.”

_My God, that does sound nice. Hermione and Millicent and Luna, none of them wearing anything at all other than maybe a bit of jewellery or a soft scrap of ribbon tied round their necks, taking turns at being bent over my knee... of course, I'd want to tickle and stroke them more than I spanked them. Oh, Merlin! Sorry, Hermione, I'm not used to this yet. I'm really, really sorry._

He didn't dare to look at Hermione's face. Would she ever forgive him? But to his surprise, he felt a wave of happiness and joy and love coming from her. _Harry. I love you. I've loved you practically as long as I've known you. And I'm pretty sure you're picking up on my fantasies as much as or more than I'm picking up on yours. Please don't beat yourself up for thinking about things that make me just as hot and bothered as they make you. Or maybe even more hot and bothered. I do believe I'm going to need a change of knickers, or at least a good drying charm, and it's all your fault, my darling Harry James Potter. Thank you!_

He looked up, and saw how brightly she was smiling. The thought hit him like a tonne of bricks: Hermione Granger really, truly, absolutely loved him, every bit as much as he loved her. Not only that, but they were both perverts, and it was fine. More than fine, because they could be perverts together. The Dursleys would be absolutely disgusted and horrified. Not that he would ever bother to tell them, but on some level they'd know, and it would bother them to no end, and even though Harry had more important things to worry about than revenge on two great pigs and an under-fed horse who happened to be somehow related to him, it was still a good thing in some way that he couldn't quite articulate.

“Thank you so much, my dear Hermione,” Millicent said. “That's taken care of it, and I think you should keep the rest for Harry. And now, if you want to kiss each other some more whilst you wait, please feel free. Luna and I won't mind in the slightest, will we, Luna?”

“Not at all. If you're embarrassed at having an audience, I'm sure Millicent and I can find some means of distracting each other so you don't have to feel as if you were two very cute and adorable stage performers inspecting each others' tonsils in the public view. Which sounds as if it might be a rather sweet thing to see, in a sense, if somewhat prurient.”

“I'm not so sure about that, my dear Luna,” Millicent said. “As much as you and I might enjoy watching them, I do think they're a little too precious a sight to be shared with anybody who pays a couple of Sickles for a ticket. I suppose you could say that's selfish of me, but I can't help feeling that way. And in any case, since our friends are kissing, would you like to be kissed yourself?”

Harry didn't hear Luna's answer, because Hermione was in his lap again and her lips were against his lips and her tongue was entwined with his tongue and he was having trouble thinking about anything else. Well, maybe he was thinking a little bit about her needing a change of knickers. And of course a part of his mind was thanking God, Merlin, and any other spiritual power who might have played a role in the matter that Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had left them locked in the Hospital Wing together.

After a little while, he became vaguely aware that Luna and Millicent were cuddled together, kissing, in one chair, just as he and Hermione were in their own chair. That was nice. He knew Ron wouldn't approve, either that or he'd want a blow-by-blow description of what the two girls were doing, but that was stupid. Harry was glad that their friends could take care of each other, just as he was taking care of Hermione and she was taking care of him. But mostly he was too wrapped up in Hermione to think of anyone or anything else.


	5. And So To Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigation, conversation, addition, modification (of the Hospital Wing), and a sweet good night (or two).

Much to Minerva’s relief, Shacklebolt was on duty. He was a consummate professional, thorough and thoughtful. And although he was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, just as Minerva and Poppy were, he was another who'd retained his own opinions, rather than altogether succumbing to the overwhelming grandfatherly presence of Albus Dumbledore and his beloved Greater Good.

“Thank you for locking down the school, Minerva. I don't believe that we'll need to keep the pupils confined to their Houses long enough to interfere with breakfast tomorrow, but I’d rather have them out of our way right now. Do I understand correctly that the prefects on patrol and the Astronomy students who might have been working in the Tower have been told to go back to their Common Rooms?”

“That's correct.”

“I don't suppose the Headmaster gave you his own level of access to the wards before he left the school? It would be good if we could confirm it.”

“Albus would never think to do such a thing, unfortunately, but I do have my own means.” She took the Map from her pocket and spread it out. “This was created by students of mine from some years back, but I've verified its accuracy many times. Filius tells me it's the best Charms-work he's ever seen from anyone not accredited as a Master by his Guild.” She tapped the parchment with her wand. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

The corridors were clear, with only the ghosts abroad. Even Filch and his helper cat were in the Custodian's personal quarters. Severus sat in his House's Common Room, facing the door, and Minerva felt a surge of sympathy; clearly, her colleague was determined that any force trying to get to his young Snakes would have to go through him first. Two of his prefects were with him: Matilda Farrington, Sixth Year, the only Slytherin prefect whose family had no Death Eater connections, and Haakon Gunnarsson, Seventh Year, whose uncle Thorarinn Ragnarsson had defected from the Dark Lord's group and died in battle on the side of the Light. Minerva suspected they were there more to guard his back against attack from the dormitories than as backup against an assault from the corridor.

Filius and the better part of his upper years had taken up defensive positions where they'd catch anyone breaking through the Ravenclaw entrance in a devastating crossfire, and all the Hufflepuffs in Fifth Year and up had joined Pomona in their battle array. She was pleased to see the Sixth and Seventh Year Gryffindors gathered in their own Common Room; although their formation wasn't as professional as what Filius or Pomona had arranged, anyone trying to break through would have faced a hard fight. The Fifth and Fourth Years, even flighty Patil, gossipy Brown, and the sometimes unreliable Ronald Weasley, were guarding the doors of the younger years' dormitories.

Potter and Granger and Bulstrode and Lovegood were very close together in the Hospital Wing. Minerva smiled at that. “The corridors are clear. We had to leave a few pupils in the Infirmary, but they'll be fine. I'll send them a Patronus and let them know they might as well bed down for the night when they feel sleepy, if that's all right with you, Kingsley.”

He looked up from the Map. “Potter and Granger, is it? From everything I've heard of the boy, he's got a good head on his shoulders, and that witch who's got his back is likely to go for an Unspeakable. They'll do great things together, I warrant. In any case, the situation's stable, so there's no harm in taking a few minutes to tell them they might as well get comfortable. You might as well let the Houses know they can stand down, whilst you're at it. I'm glad to see them ready to fight, but there's no point in them spending the whole night on watch, since it won't help with the investigation.”

“Thank you, Minerva,” Poppy said. “Please tell the young people that they're welcome to adjust the furnishings in my Infirmary as they see fit.”

“I will. I'll advise Mister Potter to talk with that funny House Elf, Dobby, the one who likes himself and Miss Granger so much.”

Poppy chortled. “Dobby? If they give him his head, he'll have my Hospital Wing converted into a bridal suite. Well, as long as he puts everything back in the morning, I reckon there's no harm in it. The girls had their Contraceptive Draught at the start of term along with everyone else, after all.”

Minerva chuckled. “I thought you said there was an Anti-Lust Ward up, Poppy.”

“Do you really think Dobby would leave something like that in place when 'the Great Harry Potter Sir and his Grangey' are sharing a bed for the first time?”

“I see your point.” Minerva was certain that Dobby already considered himself an Elf of House Potter, and was only waiting until Hermione calmed down enough to accept House Elves' need for the bond to make it official. “Well, I'm certain Mister Potter will be good to his future Mrs Potter. And in any case, I doubt they'll be especially daring when Miss Lovegood and Miss Bulstrode are in the room.”

Poppy's muffled snort made Minerva wonder if there was something she'd missed. _Then again, it was her turn to teach the sexual education lesson_ _s_ _for the girls in Miss Granger and Miss Bulstrode's Third Year,_ _wasn't it?_

It had been Minerva's turn the next time, when it was Miss Lovegood's year. The little blonde Ravenclaw been more subdued than she was in her Transfiguration lessons, asking questions only when she had no other choice. _I assumed she was shy and possibly even a little embarrassed, as unlikely as that might sound for a Lovegood,_ _but maybe there were other reasons she preferred not to share her feelings_ _and opinions_ _?_

Minerva shook her head. Further speculation was unprofessional, not to mention distracting.

 

#

 

Harry wasn’t sure how long it had been since Hermione brushed the Essence of Dittany on his wounds. Immediately afterwards, she’d taken a second look at Millicent’s hand, which bore only a faint, rapidly fading trace of “I must clear the way for my betters.”

That done, Hermione had plopped herself back in his lap and began to kiss him. They had paused for a break and were simply cuddled together, enjoying their newly acknowledged closeness, when a glowing silver tabby cat came into the room and sat before them. The cat cleared its throat and said, in McGonagall's voice, “Mister Potter, Miss Granger, Miss Bulstrode, and Miss Lovegood? I assure you that you needn't fear attack, but we're leaving the Castle locked down for the convenience of the Aurors as they investigate a minor incident. You might as well bed down in the Hospital Wing for the night. Might I suggest you ask Mister Potter's friend Dobby to make things more comfortable for the four of you? Poppy says it's fine, as long as he'll put things back the way they were in the morning.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Harry didn't know what else to say. _I'm glad she didn't take points off us for an excessive public display of affection._

“You're welcome, Mister Potter. Good night, my dear pupils.” The Patronus faded away.

“I didn't know a Patronus could do that,” Hermione said. “I'll have to read more about the Patronus Charm, won't I? And we're not exactly in public, my love, so there's no cause for worry. Professor McGonagall is rigorous, but she’s not obsessive-compulsive.”

Across from them, Millicent was blushing furiously. She and Luna had been kissing when the glowing cat appeared in the room.

Luna, on the other hand, was unperturbed. “I have it on reliable authority that a Patronus sending is incapable of doing visual reconnaissance, my dear. Otherwise, Herman the Harmonious wouldn't have put such effort into the development of better scrying charms during his time as War Chief of the Long Rider Clan of the Notaries Public. He's recorded as one of the five best wizards of his day for the Patronus Charm, after all.”

“Err, thanks, my dear. Still, I'm a little bit embarrassed. I mean, kissing in front of Harry and Hermione is one thing, since after all we've watched them kissing and all of that, but Professor McGonagall? Even if it was only her Patronus and she couldn't actually see us.”

“I'm pretty sure she's kissed a few people in her time, Millicent. In fact, last year I saw her and Professor Sprout come out of a greenhouse looking rather mussed. I don't think I've ever seen either of them with her hair down before or since.”

“Oh.”

Luna smoothed a stray lock of Millicent's hair. “They looked very fetching that way, actually. I do have to imagine they must have been nearly as darling and attractive as you or Hermione when they were at school.”

“Oh, err, well, thanks.”

“They're very cute, aren't they, Harry?” Hermione whispered in his ear.

“Yes.” If he hadn't been able to feel that she was perfectly serious, he might have worried that this was one of the 'boyfriend tests' that the Weasley Twins and Oliver Wood had warned him about.

“Of course I'm serious, Harry, and I don't believe in deliberately testing my best friend, as if I were hoping he would fail. His now being my boyfriend as well hasn't changed my opinions that way at all.” She dropped a little kiss on the tip of his ear. “I happen to think they're perfectly adorable.”

“I'm glad you have them for your friends, Hermione. I know Ron and I haven't always been as good to you as you deserve. I'm sorry for that. Especially for that business with the broomstick in Third Year. You were only trying to keep me safe, and I was horrible to you.”

She nuzzled him. “Thank you, Harry. I forgive _you_. I forgave you long ago. You apologised to me back then, even if Ron never did. And actually, if it hadn't been for that fortnight, as hard as it was, I'm not sure I'd have really got to know Millicent and Luna, or Ginny, either. They were a great support to me then, and they have been ever since.”

He looked over to the two girls. “Thank you. Thank you so much, both of you.”

Millicent went pink and wouldn’t look up from the floor. “Oh. Err, well, you're, you're welcome, Harry. And the only reason Hermione ever got to know me at all was because I felt I should apologise for when I put her in a headlock at that stupid duelling club.”

Luna gave the tall girl another little squeeze. “Thank you, Harry.”

“But why are you thanking me, Luna?”

“Because you really have taken very good care of our Hermione, that's why. If you don't feel you've done enough, that's because you love her, and almost nothing could be enough in your opinion. Also, because dear Millicent looks even more adorable than she usually does when handsome boys say sweet things to her and make her blush. You're very good at that as well, Harry Potter.”

“She's right, Harry.” Hermione kissed him. When they broke the kiss, she looked in his eyes for a long moment. “About all of the above.” And then she kissed him again.

Luna and Millicent were kissing as well. Some minutes later, when the two couples were simply snuggled together, Luna said “So, will we call for Harry's friend Dobby, as Professor McGonagall suggested?”

Harry looked at Hermione. He knew how she felt about House Elves. To his surprise, she went slightly pink. “Err, Harry, Millicent and Luna finally had a talk with me about, well, all that. I think I have a better appreciation of the Elves and what they're like, now. And... I think it's just fine if Dobby helps us. More than that, I... well, if you don't mind, it mightbegoodforyoutobondwithhim.”

“Hermione?”

“Well, it turns out House Elves actually need to be part of a family, for the sake of their health and their happiness. And I think that in Dobby's opinion he's already a member of our... that is, a member of your family, so you might as well make it official. I'll not be angry. More than that, I'll be happy.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I mean, I'd hope you'll pay him whatever he's willing to take, and I'll try to get him to take some time off for himself as well, but... well, I know you'll not abuse him. We're not Malfoys, are we?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“My great-grandmother was a Malfoy,” Luna said, “but the family have fallen sadly downhill since her time, I'm afraid. Cousin Draco is a most irritating excuse for a Wizard. He makes Ronald look not only tolerable, but even rather exemplary by comparison.”

Hermione shuddered. “Alas, you're right.”

“Well, we all have detestable cousins somewhere,” Harry said. “Mine is no prize, although I think he's growing up a little bit, maybe. He might be better than his parents, someday, at least. Not that it would be hard to do that.”

Hermione smiled. “I'd imagine our Elvish family member might have something to say to your so-called relatives, don't you?”

Luna chuckled. “I imagine I might rather enjoy watching him express his opinion to them.”

“I know it might sound strange,” Harry said, “but I don't want them hurt. Not really hurt, I mean. I detest them, but still, they're my family. Or at least they're my relatives. I'd be perfectly happy with never seeing them again, but I'd feel badly if I let them be injured.”

Hermione kissed his ear again. “Which is another sign of how very good a person you are, my love.”

“I'm not _that_ good. I do have to admit I'd not mind them being embarrassed.”

“Which is something we could all get behind, I think,” Hermione said. “Now, shall we call Dobby and see about settling in for the night? We might have an early morning, depending on when Madam Pomfrey wants her infirmary back.”

Luna smiled. “I think we'll be fine, whatever time anyone comes round to roust us up. But it might be nice for you to bring your friend into your family, Harry.”

“I do agree,” Hermione said. “We might even see if Winky would like to join us... that is, to join you, as well.” She glowed pink. It was a fetching colour. Luna and Millicent were beaming, which Harry imagined meant they agreed with him.

“I think you're right, Hermione.” He leant over and kissed her on the cheek. Which naturally led to kissing her on the lips again. And again. And again.

“Love,” she said, when their lips parted for the fifth or sixth time, “we'll still be here together after you've talked to Dobby. We'll be here all night, in fact.”

In the past, Harry might have blushed and apologised. But he could feel Hermione's gentle humour in the back of his mind. He swallowed a “Sorry,” and instead said “Good point, love.” He sat up straight, and gave the girls a moment to settle themselves. Millicent and Luna stopped kissing, and Luna gave him a little nod. Millicent smiled blissfully at everyone in the room. He wasn't sure if that was permission or not, but Hermione squeezed his hand and silently reassured him. “Dobby?”

“The Great Sir Harry Potter calls Dobby?”

Millicent giggled and hugged Luna a little closer. Hermione grinned as well, and gave him a mental caress.

“Yes, Dobby. I do.”

“Ah, this is being very most good! The Great Sir Harry Potter and his girlses are wanting Dobby's assistance?”

“Err... yes. Please.” Harry wasn't even sure how to phrase his request, not to mention that Dobby's phrasing had thrown him for a bit of a loop. _I don't want to hurt his feelings, but I can't believe Hermione really likes being referred to as if she were somehow my possession. I can't believe Millicent and Luna would, either._

Hermione giggled. “Please pardon our Harry, Dobby. This has been something of a confusing night for him, I think.”

“Of course, Mist'ess Mione. Dobby could never not forgive the Great Sir Harry Potter. Or his lovely ladieses, either. They is all of them always only meaning well.”

Hermione glanced at Dobby's large stack of knitted hats, glanced towards the ground, and went a little pinker. Harry thought it best to change the subject. “Ah, well, the thing is, Dobby, we're going to be spending the night here. And we were hoping you might be able to make the Hospital Wing a bit more comfortable for us to sleep in?”

The Elf grinned. Harry had never noticed that he had a gold molar before. “Dobby is being very most willing to make a comfortable bedroom for the Great Sir Harry Potter and his ladieses, but there is being Hoggywarts ruleses and regulations that is being makings it more difficult for Dobby to be making the bedroom as comfortable as they is deserving... unless the Great Sir Harry Potter is being willing to bond with Dobby?”

Hermione squeezed Harry's hand. “It's up to you, love. But I think it would be good if we... that is, if you did.”

“I can't say no, then. Dobby? I accept you as an Elf of House Potter.”

Dobby glowed for a moment. “Master Harry Potter and his Lady are being most powerful, even without fully consummating their bond!”

Harry could feel the pleasant little thrill that ran through Hermione. That was good, because without it he would have worried that his best friend and now girlfriend would be embarrassed at the talk of consummation. _Only when you're ready,_ _my l_ _ove,_ he thought.

_Only when we're both ready, dear heart,_ she replied. And aloud: “Dobby? What about your friend, Winky?”

“She is being a little better, Mist'ess Lady Mione. She is not being drinking as much.”

Hermione glanced at Harry. He smiled and nodded, sending a warm little pulse of approval. “Dobby,” she said, “would she be better off if she bonded with Harry as well?”

“Dobby is thinking it is being a good thing for Winky to be bonding to youses family. But Winky is being a very stubborn Elf. Dobby is finding this attractive, but it is not makings thingses easiers.”

“Please tell her we'd like to have her,” Harry said.

“The Great Master Sir Harry Potter is being most kindest!” Dobby gestured, and the room shifted. “Dobby will be speaking with Winky tonight, and perhaps Winky will be willing to speak with the Great Master Sir Harry Potter and his Lady Mione and their girlses tomorrow.”

Harry smiled at the Elf. “Thanks, Dobby.”

“Yes, thank you, Dobby,” Hermione said.

“The Great Master Sir Harry Potter and the Great Mist'ess Lady Mione are thanking Dobby! Dobby is most honoured.”

“It's nothing less than what you deserve,” Hermione said.

Dobby produced a polka-dotted handkerchief from somewhere, and wiped a few happy tears from his eyes. “The bed and the other furnishings are being ready. Is there anything else the Master and Mist'ess and their girlses are needing?” There was something funny about that, wasn't there? _Well, surely it was just Dobby's own fractured variety of English. Nothing to worry about._

“Just our night clothes, please, Dobby,” Hermione said.

“Night clotheses? But the Master and the Mist'ess and their girlses are being alone togethers, and the doorses are being bolted and then locked as well, both by Madam Healer Pomfrey and by Dobby himself...”

Hermione blushed. “Err, well...”

Dobby grinned. “Ah, yes, the Master and the Mist'ess are being youngs. Dobby is understanding. So, Dobby will be getting what they are needing from their owns dormitories. Dobby will be back soon!”

The Elf popped away, and Hermione planted a little kiss on Harry’s ear. “I might not mind following Dobby’s advice as regards clothing, but I don’t want you embarrassed, my love.”

“Err… Maybe not in the Hospital Wing, at least?”

She kissed him lightly on the lips. “I think that’s wise, dear heart. But when we’re ready...” She grinned sweetly, and he kissed her again.

“Eep! Where am… oh.” That was a familiar voice, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t Luna or Millicent. Hermione leapt off his lap, and Harry rose to his feet, drawing his wand.

“Um… hi, Harry. Hi, Hermione. I… I’m sorry to disturb you.” Ginny Weasley waved. There was an awkward little smile on her face. She wore a dressing gown and fuzzy slippers on her feet. There was a paperback book in her hand, but she shoved it into her pocket before Harry could properly see what she was reading. He didn’t know what to say. _‘Oh, Ginny, I didn’t see you there’ seems awfully obvious, considering she certainly wasn’t standing there a minute ago._ He realised his wand was still out, and put it away.

“Good evening, Ginevra,” Luna said. “I’d ask if the Nargles brought you, but it’s quite obviously our good friend Dobby’s work. You were in our Hermione’s dormitory, weren’t you?”

“Err… Hello, Luna. And yes, I was. After Professor McGonagll sounded the all clear and we stood down, I went ahead and took my bath, and then I thought Hermione might be back, so I went across the stairwell for a visit, to, to ask how Harry was. And when you weren’t there, Hermione, I sat down on your bed to wait for you and whilst I was waiting I thought I might as well catch up with… well, that novel you lent me.”

Hermione laughed. “And then when Dobby went to collect my night-things, he thought you must be one of them.”

Ginny’s face went nearly as red as her hair. “Err, well...”

“I can’t blame him,” Luna said. “You’re awfully cuddly, Ginevra, and you’d make a very nice teddy, now that I think of it.”

Concerned, Harry glanced at Millicent. Wouldn’t she be unhappy to hear the girl she’d been kissing talking about how cuddly another girl was? Much to his surprise, the tall Slytherin looked rather… pleased? Charmed? Curious, even? Well, she didn’t look unhappy, at any rate.

“In any event,” Luna said, “would you like to stay with us tonight, Ginevra? That is, if Harry and Hermione and Millicent don’t mind?”

Millicent smiled. “I’d be delighted if you would, Ginny.”

“How could I say no?” Hermione said. “That is, if you don’t mind, Harry?”

“Err, well… okay.”

Ginny looked thoughtful. “Are you sure, Harry? I wouldn’t want to be in the way. And… I know I was awfully silly, back when we first met, what with that ridiculous crush of mine. I must have annoyed you. I’m sorry for that.”

He couldn’t bear to see anyone looking so ashamed. “You were fine, Ginny. I’m sorry I didn’t make more of an effort to get to know you. You must have been terribly lonely that summer, with your brothers being so busy and your mother always trying to keep track of what they were doing. Not to mention you must have been nervous about your First Year coming up. I wish I’d had the sense to pay attention to you.”

“Oh, Harry… Thank you. You were fine. When it really counted, in the Chamber of Secrets, you were there for me, and you saved my life. Thank you.”

“We were all younger, back then,” Millicent said. “I think we can safely concentrate on current events, can’t we?”

Hermione patted her on the shoulder. “Very well said, my friend. So, shall we change for bed? That is, those of us who aren’t in our night clothes already?”

Harry noticed a stack of clothing on Madam Pomfrey’s work table, with a pair of his own pyjamas on top. _The rest must be the girls' nightgowns, I suppose._ “All right. Who wants the lavatory first?”

He felt a little mental giggle from Hermione, and he sensed something passing between his girlfriend and her friends. “How about if you go ahead, Harry? You can change in there, and clean your teeth and such, and we'll change out here, and then we'll each have our turn.”

“If you're sure...”

“We certainly are, my love.” She threw her arms about him and kissed him soundly. “Now, do go, my Harry.”

“As you wish, my Hermione.”

She giggled. “Be careful what you say, my love. What I _think_ we _should_ do and what I _wish_ we _could_ do might be two very different things.”

He grabbed up his pyjamas and the toothbrush Dobby had thoughtfully laid on top of them and headed into the lavatory. A few minutes later he was ready for bed. He laid his hand on the knob, but it occurred to him that the girls might need more time to change their clothes in. He began to knock, but then he realised there was a better way. _Hermione,_ he thought, _can you hear me? Should I come out now, or should I wait?_

_Harry? Oh, that's thoughtful of you, my love. Why don't you—oh, dear. Luna!_

_Is something the matter?_

_Oh, no, it's fine, love. Just... well, best you wait for a few minutes. I'll let you know when it's clear, okay?_

_Okay. Thanks, love._

_Thank you, my darling Harry._

He looked in the mirror, ran a bit of water on the teeth of the comb that Dobby had left, and tried his best to smooth his hair. It didn’t really seem to help, but at least it was something to do whilst he waited.

At last, Hermione knocked on the door. “All right, Harry.” He stepped out into the room. Hermione was wearing a fuzzy green dressing gown and soft suede slippers, with her hair pinned up for bed. She looked amazing. _Then again, Hermione always looks amazing._

“Thank you, my love,” she whispered as she hugged and kissed him. “I think you look amazing as well.”

The other girls were stood behind her. Millicent was wearing a long terrycloth dressing gown, with the legs of her pyjamas just showing underneath, and furry slippers that looked like bear paws. He wouldn't have expected the tall girl to wear anything pink, especially not a dressing gown with plump little horses on it, but it worked, somehow. Luna was wearing... that was Hermione's shirt, wasn't it? Had Dobby somehow not managed to find the Ravenclaw's nightclothes?

Hermione laughed softly. Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered "No, love, Dobby brought Luna's usual night clothes. Or should I say her usual lack of night clothes?"

For a moment he thought he was misunderstanding, but then it hit him. "Oh."

"Yes. So, the rest of us convinced her that you'd be mortified—which took some doing, and she did her best to argue that we'd all be much more comfortable if we girls would follow her lead instead, and you'd get used to it soon enough—and then we had to work out something for her to wear. Sorry for the delay."

"It's fine, love. Thank you."

"Luna is very persuasive, you know, my love. She came very near to convincing all of us, even me." Hermione grinned at him. "Mm, you like that idea, don't you?"

He couldn't lie to her. Even if she'd not been able to feel his reaction, just as he could feel hers... well, he'd never been able to keep anything from Hermione for long. "Yes."

"So do I, love. And maybe sometime, when we're a bit older..."

He kissed her ear. "Maybe we should talk talk about that later?"

"We can, dear heart. And we will. But for now... just let me go a moment, please, as I see Millicent is done taking her turn in the WC and Luna and Ginny insisted I should have the next. Don't fret, now, I'll be back soon." She laughed sweetly, and they gave each other a final squeeze before they let go.

Immediately, the three girls glomped onto him. "I hope you don't mind, Harry," Millicent whispered, "but when we don't have our Hermione, it seems we rather need somebody to cuddle."

_Hermione? I hope this is all right..._

She giggled in the back of his mind.  _Of course it's all right, love. As long as you don't mind me cuddling them?_

How could he mind that? He sent her a wordless pulse of affection and appreciation, and hugged the other girls a little closer. Luna smelled like mint and roses, Millicent like lavender and coconut, and Ginny like strawberries. He imagined it must have been their different hair potions.

And when Hermione embraced them, adding her own scent of cinnamon, it was perfect. Once Luna and Ginny had had their turns in the lavatory, Hermione took him by the hand and led him behind the curtain Dobby had raised across the room. On the other side, there was one great bed.

"So, here we are, love," she said. "Do you like it?"

He didn't know what to say. "It... it looks nice. But... are you sure you're all right with this?"

"Love," Hermione murmured, "you and I have been dating since I was twelve and you were eleven. Granted, we didn't realise we were a couple until this evening. But still... after four years together, doesn't it seem like it's about time we shared a bed?"

"Well, when you put it that way... yes. I just... I don't want to force you, you know?"

She kissed him softly. "Harry, my heart, I don't want to force you, either. But I don't think we need to worry about that, do we? Tonight is just for cuddling. And I, for one, am very much looking forward to it. Aren't you?"

"Yes, love."

Hermione giggled. "I just hope it doesn't bother _you_ that we're sharing the bed with our friends."

"If it doesn't bother you, or them, how could it bother me? Besides... having them there makes it a little less scary, somehow. We're just sharing the bed for sleep, nothing more."

Luna laughed sweetly. "Well, I don't think the rest of us would object in the slightest if our dear Harry and our dear Hermione _did_ choose to enage in some further experimentation whilst we're all in bed together, but as you wish, my sweet friends."

Ginny laid her head on Luna's shoulder and closed her eyes, pretending to fall into a snooze. "What _I_ wish, darling Looney, is that we could continue this discussion in bed if we need continue it at all. I hope you don't mind, my dears, but I am kind of sleepy."

Millicent hugged both smaller girls. "That sounds brilliant."

Hermione's happiness twined with Harry's, and he felt as if a great wave of warm loving thoughts were running from her, through him, back into her, and spilling out to warm Luna and Ginny and Millicent. "I'm in favour, then. How could I not be?"

"How could any of us be opposed?" Hermione said. "Since the vote's unanimous, let's to bed, my dear friends."

Harry and Hermione ended up standing together at the side of the great bed, gazing into each other's eyes. They might have stood there all night, except for Luna, who giggled, hugged them together, and said "Very well, then, my dears," She seized Millicent by the hand and led her to the bed, bounced up onto the mattress and rolled over a few times. "My, this is comfortable. I think you'll sleep much better here than you will standing up and staring at each other all night."

Hermione chuckled. "She's right, Harry."

"Of course I am!" Millicent was still standing by the bed, looking a little pink. Harry followed her gaze, and realised she was staring fixedly at Luna's face. Then he realised the little blonde's shirt had ridden up and she hadn't bothered to tug it back down. His own face went warm, and he looked away. "Oh, come you here, sweet," Luna said, tugging the tall girl in on top of her. "Let's get this dressing gown off, and don't worry, my dear, I'll let you come round to taking off your pyjamas in your own time."

Hermione chuckled. "Come, love, let's get in."

"Let's." There was a moment's awkwardness before they figured out how to let go of each others' hands. And then Hermione untied the belt of her dressing gown and slipped it off her shoulders.

He hadn't been expecting that, somehow. Oh, he knew his dearest friend wasn't going to sleep in her dressing gown, of course, but all the same, the sight of Hermione removing a garment stopped him in his tracks for a moment.

She smiled at him as she hung the dressing gown from a hook beside the bed. "Like what you see, Harry?"

"I... yes." She was wearing a night-gown—or was it more properly termed a night-shirt?—of soft nubbly cotton. It was periwinkle blue, with a little bit of lace at the collar, and it only went down to the middle of her thighs. Somehow he'd expected she'd wear pyjamas.

"Mm, I _do_ ," Ginny purred. Harry glanced at her, and she blushed. "Err... sorry." She turned away, taking off her own dressing gown and hanging it next to Hermione's.

"It's fine, Ginny." He would have liked to hug her, but he didn't know if he should.

Hermione wrapped an arm about him and kissed him on the nose. "Come here, love, someone needs a hug from us." Together, they embraced Ginny.

The redhead turned about and snuggled into them both. "Really? You don't mind?"

"How could I?" Hermione said. "I think you look lovely, yourself." She kissed Ginny on the forehead. "And now, sweet friends, let's to bed." They squeezed each other and let go.

Immediately, a mass of pink terrycloth came flying from the bed. Acting on pure reflex, Harry caught it. "Would you hang that up, please, Master? Our Millicent doesn't need it at the moment."

He wasn't sure what to think about the title Luna had given him—as a joke, surely—but Hermione was chuckling happily. He hung the dressing gown with the others, and turned back to the girls.

"Thanks, love," Hermione said, and hopped up onto the mattress. He tried not to pay too much attention to the way her gown slid up, even though he could feel that she didn't mind him looking. She held out her hand. "Now come here, you."

"As you wish." He sat beside her, and she hugged him about the shoulders for an instant before crawling towards the centre of the bed.

He followed her, and they sat knee to knee.

"Come under the duvet, my darlings," Luna said. "You're very nice to look at, sitting there, but I believe you'll each get a crick in your neck if you sleep that way."

Hermione laughed. "She's right."

"Yeah. Let's get under the duvet." With a bit of awkward motion, they slipped under the covers. He tried not to think about how high Hermione's gown had ridden up before she tugged it back down, or what she might be wearing—or not wearing—beneath.

Ginny cuddled against his back. "Is this okay?"

"Of course it is, sweet," Hermione said. "Isn't it, Harry?"

"Yeah."

Millicent and Luna were so close that he could feel their warm presence on Hermione's other side. It felt nice. More than that, it felt right.

_Of course it does, my Harry,_ Hermione thought at him.  _And now let's sleep._

 

#

 

"Professor McGonagall, Captain Shacklebolt?"

Minerva managed to stop herself from completely drawing her wand. She would have been more embarrassed if she'd not noticed Shacklebolt sliding his back into the holster as well.

The speaker, a tiny brown-haired woman with a long thin nose whom she dimly remembered as a Hufflepuff prefect in the early Eighties, didn't seem in the slightest bit fazed at how close they'd both come to drawing on her. _Byrd, Fowler,_ _Robbin, something like that, isn't it? For heaven's sake, why can't I remember her name?_ "Begging your pardon, but we're all done with the preliminary forensics. May we remove the body to the morgue?"

Minerva looked at the Auror. He looked at her. "If it won't interfere with Captain Shacklebolt's investigation, it's fine with me."

Shacklebolt nodded. "Go ahead, Healer Wren. We'll have your team's report tomorrow, yes?"

"Of course."

Minerva felt like slapping her forehead. _Wren. Matilda Wren. Of course. I didn't forget her name, I dismissed it because it_ _seemed_ _too obvious_ _to be real_ _._ "I'll escort you to the gate, Madam Wren. You'll be able to Portkey back to Saint Mungo's from there."

"I'll walk with you," Shacklebolt said.

Wren went back through the balcony door. "All right, people, time to bag the deceased and head for home. Sanderson, you're on _Mobilicorpus_ duty. Don't drop this one, right?"

As Minerva followed the forensic team and their burden down the stairs, through the Great Hall, and out through the grounds, she tried to sort through her own feelings. _I'm not satisfied, but I'm not sad or sorry. I'm not even sure I_ _can say I_ _feel numb._ _Well,_ _I suppose all that really matters to me is that my students are safe._

When the team and the mortal remains of the late unlamented had been sent on their way, Shacklebolt turned to Minerva. "If it's possible, I'd like to speak with you and the other Heads of House before I leave."

"Certainly. We'll meet in the Staff Room, if that's acceptable."

"That's perfect. Thank you."

Minerva sent off her Patronus. Ten minutes later, they were all gathered round the meeting table in the Staff Room, most with steaming cups of tea or coffee in hand. Filius was stone-faced—hiding his inqusitiveness, Minerva thought. Poppy was Poppy, professionally neutral as always. Vector was bleary-eyed. Severus looked vaguely annoyed, which was only to be expected—Minerva sometimes wondered if the man had any other expressions left. Pomona looked upset, which surprised Minevra. It wasn't as if the Head of Hufflepuff hadn't lived through most of the same events as she herself had, including the first war with the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, and it certainly wasn't as if Pomona had felt any affection for the deceased. For a moment, Minerva thought back to the afternoon when the young Herbology Mistress had caught Umbridge torturing a First Year's strayed pet toad. _I seriously wondered if I was going to have to restrain a colleague from killing a student. I believe that would have been a first._ _Not to mention I was tempted, myself._

Shacklebolt's briefing, of course, was exactly what Minerva had expected to hear. Dolores Umbridge had been killed by an unknown assailant; there was no reason to believe other Hogwarts Staff or students would be targeted, but of course everyone should be watchful on principle. He understood that the ultimate decision about the wartime wards was up to the Headmaster, but he himself would recommend leaving the passive layers activated at least until the investigation was complete. There were no questions.

Pomona lingered, afterward, and even joined Minerva in walking Shacklebolt to the gates. Once he'd apparated away, she said "Err... would you care to join me for a drink, Minerva?"

"I... that is, thank you, Pomona. I'd love to." She followed the Head of Hufflepuff to her little book-lined office behind its round door, just by the portrait that led to the Badger's Den itself. Pomona offered her a seat on the over-stuffed couch, and fetched a bottle of brandy and two snifters from her desk.

"I know it's not your favourite whisky-with-no-e, Minerva, but I hope this will do."

"Of course, Pomona. Thank you." They clinked glasses, sipped, and all was silent for a moment.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to go to her funeral," Pomona said at last. "She was from... somewhere around London, wasn't she? I don't know if she even had any family left, but hopefully there's someone who wants to bury her. God and Merlin forgive me, but I really don't want to bury her here."

Minerva hadn't even thought that far ahead. "I do hope there's someone. It... it's a sad thing to think someone could be so isolated."

"And if she was... well, I'd hate to feel sorry for her." Pomona made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "God forgive me, but it's true."

Minerva nodded. "I know. I remember writing to her father, back in the day, after we caught her abusing Cecily Thompson's toad. He apologised, of course, but didn't seem shocked in the slightest. He was resigned, that's the best way I can put it. I've no idea if the poor man is still alive, although I don't believe he was particularly old."

Pomona grimaced. "I remember that. Christ, what an appalling child she was. Only a Third Year, and she was casting the Algesis Curse on the poor creature. The very next thing to the Cruciatus, and I wish it had been Cruciatus instead because _that_ we would have been obliged to report to the DMLE, and not even Albus could have stopped us."

Minerva put her arm about her colleague. "I know. I was disgusted as well. She hadn't even the excuse of coming from one of those Dark families that cast torture curses on six year olds when they yawn at the breakfast table and hit their older siblings with a double dose if they're too slow to join in the punishment."

Pomona was weeping softly. "The worst thing is, I'm not sorry she's dead, not in the slightest. She gave a pair of my Second Years detention for nothing more than singing in the corridor, and had the poor things writing lines until their hands went sore. And when she dismissed them, she showed them a set of black quills, and told them the next time they'd write till they bled. The girl's a sensitive—her mother was a Lovegood—and she said she felt nauseated just looking at the damnable things."

Minerva went stiff, even though she had already known about Umbridge's vile little toys. "Blood Quills?"

"I think so, but of course I couldn't file a complaint, much less ask you to search a colleague's office, on the basis of two twelve year olds having merely seen a box of black quills. Susan Bones was all for getting herself a detention so she could report it to her aunt, but fortunately her friends talked her out of it."

"I've a feeling D... the deceased wouldn't have used a Blood Quill on Director Bones' niece, in any event. She was always clever about picking her targets. But she did torture Mister Potter and Miss Bulstrode with one. I... I would have reported it, but Albus forbade me."

Pomona nodded. "I hate to say it, but I hope the person who cursed her will never be caught. Especially if it's some old Death Eater, because I can't stand the thought of feeling grateful to one of those miserable thugs. Is it horrible of me to think that, Minerva?"

"No, Pomona." Somehow the two women had ended up in an embrace. They looked in each others' eyes for a long moment.

"Minerva? I know... I know it was only ever two friends comforting each other, and we agreed to break if off after Albus made you Deputy Headmistress as well as Head of Gryffindor, because of the, the chain of command but... I'm sorry. I shouldn't even bring it up."

Part of Minerva wanted to run away. Another part wanted to grab hold of her friend and never let her go. She thought of the first time they had slept together, one summer after the end of term when Minerva was twenty-nine and Pomona was twenty-three, when two women commiserating about the dearth of decent Wizards in Britain and their own recent bad break-ups over drinks at the Three Broomsticks turned into something more. And she remembered the evening last year when she'd gone to the greenhouse, simply to talk with Pomona about the awkward situation with young Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory, and they'd somehow ended up on one of the work tables, kissing like a pair of schoolgirls who'd just discovered their hormones... "It's all right, Pomona. We... well, I don't think either of us should be alone tonight. And it's not as if you're some twenty year old who just started teaching here and remembers me as an authority figure, either."

Pomona smiled. "That's true. I don't think you being the Sixth Year Gryffindor prefect when I was a Hufflepuff Firstie counts, does it?"

"No."

"Well, then, just to preserve the proprieties, I'll be the one to ask. Will... will you stay the night with me, Minerva?"

"I'd appreciate that, Pomona. I... we don't have to do anything but sleep, of course, but the company would be good."

"We'll just have to see about that, Minerva. But for now... let's go to bed."

Minerva looked down into the Hufflepuff's gentle eyes. "May I?"

"Of course." Pomona reached up, gripped Minerva by the nape of her neck, and pulled her down until their lips met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else read Thorarinn Gunnarsson's Starwolves series growing up? They were potboilers, and I have to acknowledge that too many of the plots worked only because a lot of future humans were supposed to be kind of stupid (not to mention the explanation of said stupidity was, in retrospect, creepily pro-eugenics), but thirteen year old me loved them, and on re-reading they're still amusing.  
> I saw an opening and couldn't resist inserting a tiny reference to the author, whose persona turns out to have been a stunning work of fiction.   
> https://web.archive.org/web/20040606073739/http://www.thuntek.net/hardmag/thorinn.htm  
> I hope he's well and writing again, wherever he is.


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